


A Sharpened Tibia To the Heart

by reluctant_abandon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All the werewolf tropes that have ever troped, Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal, Biting, Come play, Derek CIA Agent, Dirty Talk, Evil Argents, Fingering, Fluff, M/M, Oral, Possible dub-con if you're trigger sensitive, Rimming, Serial Killer in Beacon Hills, Serial killer is fucking its victims ALL up, Sky's the limit with the smut, Some consensually filthy smut okay?, Stiles Profiler, Stiles is bitten, Top!Derek--mostly., Undercover as a Couple, dominant derek, mate fic, submissive stiles, teh Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:31:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 115,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4614801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctant_abandon/pseuds/reluctant_abandon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recruited into the Behavioral Science Unit at 23, Stiles was kinda a big deal. Until his youth became more hindrance than help. Then he was kinda a big deal at coffee runs. With werewolves barely out of the closet, a serial killer slaughtering opponents of werewolf equality, and traditional police work coming up short, CIA agent Derek Hale is allowed to return from his post in South America to infiltrate his childhood pack and hunt down the killer. But not without a babysitter. Stiles gets his big break when Derek chooses him--his scent--option 31 of 50, to pose as his mate. Only, Stiles has no idea just how much Derek enjoys his scent. Or how quickly pretending becomes reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Option 31 of 50

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be substantial, folks. Fully plotted and in progress. I was going to publish it as a oneshot. But what can I say? I've got poor impulse control and love comments. 
> 
> Tell me I'm pretty, damn it! I'd beg, but it's only sexy when Stiles does it. ;)

As the crop duster circled the let's-be-generous-and-call-it-a landing strip, Stiles was desperate for three things: his feet, on the ground, immediately; cooler clothing; a nap. Lacking these things was, obviously, in no way his fault. Stiles was a methodical planner. Only, packing for the warmth of California wasn't effective if one found oneself in Brazil. And planning for a fourteen hour flight wasn't effective if that flight was, surprisingly, followed by six additional hours on increasingly-flimsy airplanes into increasingly-dense jungle. So, miserable, exhausted, and overheated, he was. Willing to accept fault for any of it? Stiles was not.

Either way, his last wisp of energy evaporated from his skin as he stepped into the sauna of South American summer. Shoulder bowed beneath the weight of his bag, Stiles shuffled after the pilot and toward the garden shed functioning as an airport. Bugs seemed to materialize in a swarm around his face, apparently recognizing prey too weary to put up a fight. Clever bastards. Stiles didn't spare even a token swat. 

He blinked—like a bad ass—when a hulking, curly-haired man left the building and stalked forward to greet him. 

“Stilinski?” 

Clearing his rusty throat, Stiles attempted to extend his hand, but became unduly confused when the bag halted his movement. His grunt of irritation sounded suspiciously like a whimper, so he hurriedly covered it with, “Doctor Stilinski. Hello.” 

The giant ignored his outstretched hand and pulled the bag from Stiles' shoulder instead. “Come.” 

His voice was gruff, and his pinched expression unimpressed. Stiles was so happy to lose the bag he almost hugged the precious giant. He didn't, though. Didn't ask questions, either. Just trudged along behind the man. 

To stand beside a large four wheeler.

“Come.” 

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, then felt idiotic. “We're riding that?”

Rather than answer, the man strapped Stiles' bag to the grate at its rear, straddled the machine, and extended an arm. “Come.” 

Okay, there was some chance his precious giant didn't actually speak English. Either way, they clearly were not discussing the plan, so Stiles squirmed, shimmied, and tumbled his way onto the four wheeler. Not exactly what anyone would call "outdoorsy," it was a new experience—one he could have lived without.

The man reached backward, grabbed both of Stiles' wrists, and dragged them around his chest. He only let go when Stiles obligingly held tight. The machine roared to life and they lurched forward. He started out a respectful distance from the giant's back—as one did—but a few alarming bounces and jars later, his face was plastered between the man's sweaty shoulder blades. 

This case was supposed to be a good thing. His big break. A serial killer of his own to profile, identify, and bring to justice. Hell, after being chosen for the assignment, he'd skipped straight to his victorious return in his mind. Because, you see, Stiles was sort of a big deal. Or, he was when he'd received his PhD early and at the top of his class. He was when he'd been recruited to the Behavioral Science Unit. Then he'd walked into the office for the first time, and he wasn't. 

It was hazing, he'd tried to assure himself. He'd never done the sports thing, or the frat thing, or the … group thing, so the unimpressed glances, menial paperwork, and coffee runs? All good-natured hazing. Only, it'd been a year and a half, the punchline never came, and he'd been finding it increasingly difficult to open his mouth during meetings. Which was a shame—he thought—because he might be seven years younger than everyone, and thirty years younger than most, but he'd been recruited for a reason. He was a genius. Officially. And, more importantly, he'd done the work. He'd worked hard. Pretty much always. 

Stiles dragged his thoughts out of the muck, excusing self-pity as exhaustion. This wasn't the time for navel gazing. He'd been chosen to go undercover and catch a serial killer! And it was a fascinating, important case, too. Werewolves had only come out of the closet six years ago, and things were still tense. Riots, hate crimes, and calls for internment tense. So, when a little town in California hosting a werewolf pack suffered three brutal, ritualistic murders in under two months—each victim a vocal opponent of werewolf equality—people noticed. Neither the local and state police nor the FBI task force—which Stiles had not been chosen for—had caught a break. 

To say the higher ups wanted the case solved yesterday would be an understatement. So, naturally, they'd brought in the big gun. Stiles was not the big gun. He'd like to front, but he was a logical guy. Stiles was half placeholder, allowing the FBI to claim responsibility for resolving the situation, and half babysitter. The big gun was Derek Hale. An alpha werewolf, Derek was an estranged member of the Beacon Hills pack and property of the United States government. CIA active, property—same difference. 

Basically, the only way Derek was getting out of South America to protect his childhood pack was on an official mission and with an FBI partner. Like, partner-partner. Lover. Mate. Deep cover, immediate-acceptance-by-the-pack stuff. Which was where Stiles came in. 

Derek had picked him specifically. Probably from his entrance file and essays, not to mention the many case files he'd put together since joining the team. And his phenomenal cologne, obviously, because they'd wiped a cloth all over him, bagged it, and sent it off for Derek's approval. Which, frankly, had terrified him. Sending his scent to some Rambo-type alpha running around the jungles of Brazil? Not a soothing thought.

But he'd been chosen, immediately imagined the return of his big-deal status, and never even considered he'd be sent to Brazil to establish their cover. He'd imagined a cozy safe house in California. Not rickety planes and a four wheeler ride through dense forest. He certainly hadn't been exhaustion-stupid and kitten-weak when he'd imagined meeting Derek already-a-big-deal Hale. 

He noticed when the engine cut off. Of course he did. Stiles was a smart guy. He simply chose not to move for thirty seconds or so. He was resting. Then, he jerked backward at his guide's abrupt, confusing departure and blinked the awake out of his eyes. Still dazed, he nearly crawled free of the four wheeler. It saved him from sprawling into the dirt when his legs buckled, but left him staring numbly at several laughing faces when he managed to right himself and look around. 

It was a camp in the jungle. And not like any summer camp he'd seen on television. More like an episode of M.A.S.H but less permanent. Immediately, he began cataloging the items he should have packed, beginning with a month's supply of bug spray. Flashlights, too. Dusk was approaching quickly, and the encroaching forest was a foreboding shadow steadily creeping closer. 

“Come.” 

Gulping, Stiles followed the giant toward one of the bigger tents, all the while trying to shake himself back to a respectable state. When he entered the tent only to find it empty, Stiles turned back to his guide with a lump in his throat. As far as he knew, the last person who'd spoken English was two planes ago, and he stood isolated and alone with a mountain of a man and a large cot conspicuously spread before them. Ages too late, he wondered if he'd made a mistake? A grave mistake. 

The man dropped Stiles' bag on the bed, declared, “Stilinski,” and left the tent. 

Stiles fidgeted for a minute, tried to come up with a plan, and then put on his pajamas, crawled under the covers—checking for spiders, thank you very much—and fell asleep. 

*** 

Stiles woke up in the middle of the night dripping sweat and held immobile by the man curled against his back. He jerked, squeaked, and stuttered, “I, ah....”

“Not used to sharing a bed, huh?” 

He started trembling, though he couldn't say why, and felt a drop of sweat slide down his nose. 

“Ah....” 

“Kept kicking and shoving me out. Self defense.” The stranger grumbled sleepily and tightened his grip. “Made you behave.” 

Something twisted in his belly and Stiles heard his breathing quicken. He didn't know if he was speaking to himself or the man behind him when he breathed, “What?” 

The man's lips slid against his neck as he said, “Take off your clothes.” 

Stiles trembled harder. “Derek?” 

“Mmm,” he agreed. “Gonna roast. Take 'em off.” 

“I....” He cleared his throat. “I can't.” 

With a grumble, Derek released him. Stiles didn't move. He wasn't sure that's what he meant. Wasn't sure of a lot of things, suddenly. When the seconds dragged by and he could only shake, his heartbeat hammering, Derek reached for the hem of his shirt. His knuckles dragged over Stiles' stomach, ribs, and chest as the shirt was pushed ever higher. Stiles wasn't sure it was strictly necessary, but his traitorous body seemed to approve wholeheartedly. When Derek's fingers curled beneath the waist of his pants, Stiles gave a full-body shudder even as he squeaked again and hurriedly pushed them off himself. 

“You're funny.” Without another word, Derek hauled Stiles back into the cradle of his body. “Go to sleep.” 

Ha! His body was tingling and trembling. His mind was a giant question mark lit up like Derek's body was an electric fence. 

“I don't—” Stiles started. 

Against the nape of his neck, Derek ordered, his voice deep and dark, “I said, go to sleep.” 

Blunt human teeth sank into the curve of his neck and Stiles' mind stuttered and went quiet. Body going limp, his eyelids slid closed and he remembered nothing more. 

***

When he woke up again, light illuminated the tent and he was alone. Also, harder than he'd been in years. His body started trembling immediately and Stiles ran a hand over his face. What the hell? What the actual hell? 

Had he missed some vital chapter on werewolf abilities? He'd done his research. He always did his research. So, again, what the hell? Why did he feel so off? Like a stranger in his own body? Like it actually belonged to Derek and no one had ever bothered to tell him that? 

Nope. Nope. Nope. 

He pushed the thoughts away and rolled out of bed. After thirty push ups, his erection waned. After a hundred sit ups, he trusted himself to think again. He pulled on fresh clothes roughly and stalked from the tent like he was running from himself.

Three steps beyond the tent, mid-morning sun hit his face and slowed his steps. He reached for the collar of his button up and undid the second button. Having accomplished nothing at all, he made peace with the inevitable and walked toward the gathering of people at the center of camp, shade provided by a tarp stretched overhead. Derek looked up from his place at the only table and watched his approach. 

Wow. Derek's ID picture in no way prepared Stiles for the full-sized, living, breathing specimen of perfection that was Derek Hale. Stiles gave a self-conscious wave and felt his spirits shrivel at Derek's answering squint. 

“We could offer a second chamber seat?” someone said. 

“Not on the table!”

“A tax cut, then?” 

“They're big on controlling a local judge.” 

Derek ignored his men to continuing staring at Stiles. “Go put on a tee shirt.” 

Five sets of eyes turned to Stiles and his gray button up. Their expressions ranged from frustration to amusement, and he'd never wanted to vanish in a puff of smoke more. Still … shouldn't he.... 

“Those are pajamas,” he objected weakly. “And, bugs. This will protect me from bugs.” 

Derek growled softly. 

With a frustrated huff, he turned and stalked back to the tent. The huff, he thought, was very expressive. It said, “You are not the boss of me!” and “You won't always get your way!” and “I'll play along because your men are watching, but you and I are going to talk about this!” It said a lot for a petulant puff of air. 

It had to, because Stiles was not some 50's housewife willing to—jesus, fuck, that felt better. 

Of course, he had to slink back to the group of bad ass soldiers wearing his threadbare red tee with a picture of Mario and Luigi holding hands, but the breeze cooled the humidity clinging to his skin. He didn't meet anyone's gaze as he returned, but took the chair that had been pulled up next to Derek's. When a plate of food was offered, he took it with a muttered, “Thanks.” 

As conversation flowed around him, Derek reached out and ran his fingers through the hair curling at the nape of Stiles' neck. Some foreign feeling bloomed in his chest, and Stiles found his eyes sliding shut before he blinked himself back to sanity. Derek's grip tightened and then disappeared. 

For nearly an hour, Derek and his men talked business. It seemed they were in negotiations with a local faction determined to garner more power—through any means necessary. Derek's job was to convince the ringleader that politics was a better avenue than violence. Apparently, they were hammering out the last minute details on a negotiation that had been months in the making. Listening to them talk, Stiles could understand why he'd been brought to Derek rather than the other way around. Stiles' absence from the office meant two things: people would have to do their own paperwork and get their own coffee. He was that important. 

Instead of concerning himself with their mission, Stiles focused on his own. Constructing meaning from behavior was his trade, so he observed Derek and learned what he could. For instance, despite clearly having the last word, Derek listened to his men. Let everyone speak. In exchange, when Derek spoke, everyone listened and considered his words carefully. But no one was afraid to argue with him—albeit gently. Derek was also incredibly nonvocal, his men reading his expressions like a shared language. The tic of his eyebrow was a question and the twitch of his lips was praise or dismissal. Each time he raised his chin, the table fell silent. Each time he hummed in consideration, they hurried to elaborate and explore the suggestion. He rarely spoke for an entire hour, then announced their position for the day's negotiations. No one argued.

When Derek sat back in his chair and rolled his shoulders, the meeting was clearly adjourned. Some stood while others turned to each other and spoke. Yet, within minutes, everyone had cleared out and gone their separate ways—knowing their assignments without further instruction. 

Derek turned to him, his lips quirking as he observed Stiles' shirt. Rather than comment, he asked, “What did you think?” 

“You have a good team.” 

Derek nodded. “What else did you think?” 

Stiles bit his lip for a moment. With a shrug, he said, “Your men clearly acknowledge your leadership, but you respect their opinions. You utilize your resources well, demonstrating an above average intelligence and enough self-assurance to limit posturing and ego. Your heavy use of nonvocal communication demonstrates enhanced empathy. And the lack of resentment toward assigned tasks indicates a shared sense of community and a fair hand.” 

Derek hummed, a little sound like a human purr, and Stiles now knew it contained approval and praise. He gave a soft smile in return. 

“That's a kind assessment,” Derek said. 

“And I know you can be bossy and growly when people don't obey you without question,” Stiles added. 

“You're more comfortable, right?” 

“Shush it.” 

“You brought it up.” 

Derek's gaze seemed to pin him down, suck all the air from his lungs. Stiles averted his eyes, but fidgeted. 

“You're naturally submissive,” Derek said. “But stubborn.” 

“Am not.” 

“Which? Submissive or stubborn?” 

Glancing back toward Derek, he shrugged his shoulders and offered, “Either?” 

“You're both. And too smart to be get what you need.”

Shit. Stiles didn't want to ask. Wanted to wiggle and dodge his way out of the conversation even as his breath went shallow and his heart quickened. Which, really, was a problem. How was he supposed to convince werewolves he was Derek's partner when he couldn't stop broadcasting his emotions? Yet, for whatever reason, he couldn't force himself to walk away. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You need dominance, but you're too stubborn to submit to anyone you don't respect. You're too smart and too strong to respect most people, so you never get what you need.” 

He wanted to hide. Instead, he said, “I don't need anything.” 

Derek smirked. “Stubborn.” 

He couldn't sit anymore. Simply could not. So, he surged to his feet. When Derek remained sitting, he fidgeted. Started pacing back and forth in front of him. 

“So, okay, you've got negotiations this afternoon. When you get back, maybe we can look at the case files. Have you seen them?” 

Derek smirked again, but his expression quickly darkened. “I know there were three murders—”

“Officially,” Stiles interrupted. Immediately, he felt his heart trip into double gear, belatedly aware of his show of disrespect. Then he berated himself for caring and squared his shoulders defiantly. 

“I was briefed, but haven't read any of the files yet,” Derek finished, seemingly unconcerned. 

“Except mine.” 

Derek shook his head. “I've been busy.” 

“What? But … you read mine. They must have sent you a variety of options. You read them.” 

Derek smiled then. Not a quirk of his lips, but a full-fledged smile. “I didn't.” 

“But, how … I wrote a phenomenal entrance essay.” 

“I have no doubt.” 

Leaning back, Derek watched him with a grin, apparently very pleased with Stiles' floundering. “What did you do, pick at random?” 

“I smelled you.” Derek's expression softened. “You're perfect.” 

Frowning, Stiles muttered, “Sorry I didn't pack my cologne.” 

“You're pouting.” 

“I am not.” 

“You are.” Derek snatched his wrist and yanked him closer. He ran his nose along Stiles' forearm and nuzzled into his wrist. “And you don't understand scent.” 

“I....” 

“Your emotions, your history and thoughts, they're all on your skin. That's what I smell. And you smell like....” 

Stiles gulped. “A genius with excellent time-management skills?” 

“Mine.” 

Stomach clenching, his lips parted on a harsh exhale. “Well, compatibility is essential for any successful partnership, and anything that makes our bond more believable is, um, good. So, we'll discus the victims and the ritualized murders tonight, and that's what we'll, you know, do.” 

Derek huffed as his eyebrow arched. 

“You're making me super nervous, and I don't know why!” Stiles announced. 

“You know why.” 

He laughed, but it sounded panicked to his own ears. “You've got weird werewolf mojo?” 

“I'm what you need.” 

His entire body clenched, then began to tremble. Seriously! What the flying fuck was with the trembling? Jerking his hand away, Stiles exclaimed, “Derek! You can't just say things like that.” 

He chuckled. “Why not?” 

“Because!” 

“Because it turns you on?” 

“Jesus!” He buried his head in his hands. “I have lost control of this conversation. You are a menace. I am a professional and an academic, and my body has never dictated my actions. Not that I'm saying—”

“It's okay to need me, Stiles.” 

His dick twitched and Stiles caught a whine in his throat. Shaking his head hard, he demanded, “Be good, please.” 

Derek leaned forward. “I'll be the best you've ever had.” 

After the white spots cleared from his vision, Stiles declared, “I'm going to review the files,” and fled. 

***

Hours later, Stiles shook himself and, once again, refocused on the case file. Yet, less than a minute later, his cheeks warmed and his thoughts strayed to Derek. It was all a joke, right? Or pretend? There was no other explanation. Derek was getting into character and Stiles was ruining it. Because he was inexperienced and taking everything too personally. 

Right? There was literally no other logical explanation. Men—pretty much generally, but certainly those who looked like Derek—did not hit on him. Which was fine with Stiles. You didn't get a PhD at twenty three by dating. By having any sort of life, actually. 

Which was the real problem. He could easily explain away Derek's behavior. Hell, even if he was hitting on Stiles, give it a few days. Once Derek sat through one of his briefings, whatever stray interest he had would evaporate. What was really, super-duper weird was Stiles' reactions. 

He wasn't a lonely guy. He liked his own company and had no problem occupying himself. Valentines Day passed every year without Stiles' notice, and he thought people on dating sites needed to get themselves a hobby. So, why were thoughts of Derek making him blush and squirm? Why was his body suddenly hyper sensitive and needy? And what, seriously, was up with the trembling? 

If he was at home, he'd be chest deep in research mode. As it was, he could only speculate. And he'd rather not. 

When he heard the guys return, Stiles shoved the files away and stood. He was disappointed in himself for getting so little done, but still welcomed the distraction. 

As soon as he caught sight of the happy grins and heard the excited chatter, he knew the negotiations went well. Derek, though, was absent. Stiles hovered on the outskirts of the celebration, thinking about retreating to the tent, until a slender, blond man smiled and waved him over. 

Despite it being only early evening, a fire was built. Most of the men collapsed to the ground, a bottle being passed around as those who had participated in the negotiations brought the rest up to speed. Someone else carried a chair over and urged Stiles into it. When the bottle was pressed into his hands, everyone went quiet as they watched him.

Weird. 

He took a tiny sip, then a larger gulp when they didn't seem satisfied. Shuddering against the harsh burn, he muttered, “thanks,” and passed the bottle. Their laughter seemed friendly, and Stiles was happy to sit and listen after their attention left him. 

Not too long after that, he looked up at a silence and saw Derek stalking into the clearing with a large capybara slung over his shoulders. Stiles felt his eyes widen. He knew it was a common meal here, but it kinda looked like a giant, bloody hamster, and was technically a rodent. Luckily, he also knew enough about werewolves to recognize the offering as a ritual of alliance and respect. So, wrinkling his nose and screeching, “people don't eat rats!” would be pretty shitty. 

When Derek dropped the dead creature at his feet and met his eyes, Stiles smiled. It wasn't as forced as he'd thought it would be. Something about the display both amused and pleased him. In a few days, this man would be standing between him and a werewolf pack—one potentially containing a serial killer. Derek's willingness to kill for his survival wasn't a meaningless gesture. 

“Thank you.” He struggled for something more appropriate to say, but found himself repeating, “Thank you, Derek.” 

“You're welcome.” 

Stiles expected him to go wash his hands—maybe change his shirt—and order one of the others to deal with the creature. Instead, he sank to the ground at Stiles' feet, pulled a large knife, and began skinning it. Stiles tried leaning around him to better see. He'd taken a bio lab and seen pictures of the human body mutilated in every possible way, but he'd never been hunting. This was a first. 

“Can I watch?” he asked quietly. 

Derek patted the dirt beside him and Stiles lowered himself to the ground. It had already been gutted, he noticed. The gash across its belly was the only visible wound. 

“Did you break its neck?” 

Derek hummed his agreement as he took the empty platter one of his men offered. As Stiles watched, he skinned and butchered the animal. After the pelt had been removed, Stiles spent some time examining it. Even lifted it to his nose for a curious sniff. Gamey.

“Does it taste good?” 

Derek shrugged. “Won't be replacing bacon anytime soon, but it makes a good stew.” 

“Neat.” 

Derek grinned at him. The expression seemed … soft. Affectionate. Gulping, Stiles stared at the pelt some more. 

Once the capybara was sorted, Derek joined his team in celebration. They'd cleared the last major hurdle and their mission should be wrapped up in a day or two. Stiles watched, finding it surprisingly easy to relax in the group of battle-hardened strangers. He even took another drink when the vodka was pressed into his hands. After dinner, Derek jerked his head toward the tent and they slipped away. 

His peace of mind fizzled almost immediately. The spacious tent seemed tiny with the two of them inside, and he couldn't help but glance at the folders still spread over Derek's cot. It wasn't going to be an easy conversation. 

“You know everything that happened to you, pretty much every painful thing, is going to be brought up, right?” Without waiting for Derek's reply, Stiles admitted, “I don't want to make you mad.” 

“It's fine, Stiles.” 

“It's not.” 

“It's necessary.” 

“Why don't we just, safe words, okay? You think it's stupid, I know. Just, red means stop. Yellow means slow up and be careful?” 

Derek snorted. “Something you want to tell me? I could dig up a whip, I think.” 

Stiles felt his cheeks blaze. “You're hilarious.” 

Derek sat in the only chair and nodded Stiles to the bed. Once they were settled, he said, “Green.” 

“So, okay, everything about this case is related to the murder of Laura Hale. Or, seems to be. As you know, she was dosed with wolfsbane, moved to a secondary location, and tortured to the point of near death shortly after werewolves were introduced to society. According to defendant testimony, we know they were trying to determine what a werewolf could recover from. Her nails and teeth were removed. Her legs were amputated above the knees, cauterized after wolfsbane had been pressed into the wounds. When Scott McCall found her, she was drained of blood and on the brink of death—”

“Yellow.” 

Stiles nodded quickly, wringing his hands. 

“Over the last two months, there appear to be three claimed killings sharing a similar M.O.,” Stiles said, pulling the folders closer to him and fishing out a picture of each victim. “The first claimed victim was an accomplice in Laura's murder. He cut a deal for his testimony, but was killed a month after being released.”

Stiles held up the picture, but Derek looked straight into his eyes and said, “I'm not sorry.” 

“I know.” Stiles dropped the picture. “Be glad you were out of town. You'd be my prime suspect.” 

Derek preened as if he'd been paid a compliment. 

“Anyway, the second was Gerard Argent, the patriarch of a clan of hunters. Also an enemy of your family.” Stiles glanced at the picture beneath his hand and returned it to its folder. “The third was Heather Daniels, a city council member who chaired the local M.A.W—that's Mothers Against Werewolves.” 

Derek nodded. “Why did you say three claimed victims?” 

“Just a theory, really. The killing blow in each murder was a strike to the heart with the sharpened tibia of the previous victim, right? But they had a tibia for the first victim. And the lab says it was fresh, so, there's a victim who wasn't put on display like the rest.” 

Derek asked, “Any local missing persons?” 

Stiles beamed at the question. It was exactly the right question. “No. Which is curious. Because whoever's doing this, they're not shy. If anything, they're trying a little too hard, you know?” 

After scratching at his stubble, Derek shook his head. “I'm not a profiler.”

“The ritual has too many components. Look.” As he reached for the folders, he warned, “It's pretty nasty.” 

He shoved a picture at Derek and, despite the hours he'd spent memorizing it, leaned closer to look again. It was a close up of Heather Daniels' face. Or, what was left of it. Her cheeks were split from the corners of her mouth to her cheekbones, causing her jaw to hang low. There was nothing but a gaping hole where her mouth should have been. Her teeth were missing, and her tongue had been cut out. Blood covered the bottom half of her face, evidence that the tongue had been removed prior to death. But almost worse—and Stiles wouldn't have thought anything could be worse—several of her teeth were embedded into her eyebrows, holding up the flap of her eyelid. The remaining teeth were shoved deep into her eye sockets. 

“Fuck,” Derek breathed. 

“What you can't see is her missing tongue crammed down her throat. And her finger nails? They're in her ears. Shoved in so deep they perforated her eardrums. Her eyes are still there, too. They weren't removed. The killer slid the teeth into her eyes, while she was still alive, until they were destroyed. Lastly, the killer stabs the tibia into their hearts, and they're meant to be alive when that happens.” 

“That's....” 

“Not instinct. Not rage or sexual desire. That's ritual overkill. Even if a wolf is doing this, it isn't the wolf killing people. It's too intellectual.” 

Derek looked away from the picture and Stiles quickly put it back in the file. 

“They all looked like that?” 

“Everyone but Gerard. Adrenaline is administered to keep the victims conscious. Argent's heart gave out before the second leg could be severed. They went through with the ritual, but there was less blood.” 

Derek pursed his lips. Looking, honestly, a little sorry to hear that. Given Gerard's daughter, Kate, had been the prime suspect in the fire that killed Derek's family, Stiles could empathize. Didn't mean he approved. He needed Derek firmly on his side, not subconsciously supporting the enemy. 

“So, what are we looking for?” 

“One sick puppy. Or, not puppy. It looks like a werewolf claw is used to sever the cheeks and remove the tibia of the victims, but there's no scent. Only the overwhelming smell of peppermint. It appears pro-werewolf, but I'm not ruling anyone out yet.”

Derek nodded. “So we investigate once we get to Beacon Hills. What's our next move here?” 

Stiles couldn't help but appreciate the question. Just like Derek's treatment of his men, Stiles was being given a chance to utilize his strengths. 

“I'll keep working on the profile. But we need to establish our cover.” He swallowed heavily. “Get to know each other. Become comfortable with casual touch. Convince people that we're, ah, lovers.” 

“Mates,” Derek corrected. 

“Mates?” 

Why did his voice sound like that? Since when did he squeak? 

“I'd bring home a mate, not a lover.” 

“Right. Convince people we're … that.” 

Derek smirked and steepled his fingers together. Stiles shifted, suddenly feeling like prey. As Derek studied him, he gathered the folders and set them on the floor. He straightened the pile twice just to occupy his hands. 

“Have you ever dated a werewolf?”

“Ah, nope. I did my research—”

“Have you ever fucked a werewolf?” 

He blinked heavily. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Ah, you know, I've been busy. Skipped a lot of grades. I was a senior in high school at fifteen. A sixteen year old college student, and three years later I had two BA's. Three years after that, I had my PhD. Then I was trying to get some respect in the BSU, and … werewolves aren't that common. You know?” 

Face lowered, heartbeat pounding, he waited for the dreaded question, but it never came.

“It wasn't a conscious choice?” 

“No … no. I don't have anything against werewolves. I like it. Not a weird amount or anything. I'm not some—” 

“Don't have a knotted dildo at home?” 

Stiles sputtered. “No!” 

“But you do have a dildo?” 

Stiles plastered a hand to his face. He wanted to tell Derek it was none of his business, but on his list of discussion topics he'd added a bullet point for “sexuality.” So, yeah. 

“Yes,” he grumbled. 

“I'm predominantly a top, but I wouldn't be opposed to you fucking me on occasion.” 

His hand was still covering his mouth. His eyes were wide as saucers. It would be better if he wasn't imagining it, but he was. Voice hushed, he gestured to the camp and whispered, “How many werewolves are out there?”

“A few.” Derek grinned. “They won't listen.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Reasonably sure.” 

Not super comforting, but what was he supposed to do about it? Stiles shifted, suddenly feeling pinned in and claustrophobic. 

“So,” Derek held him beneath a searing gaze, “what do you like?” 

Stiles knew he meant sexually. Of course, he knew. He was a smart guy. He still wanted to whisper, “pizza and barbecue chips.” If only the conversation felt as hypothetical as it should. But it didn't. If only the questions weren't edging closer to Stiles having to admit he wasn't experienced enough to have preferences. But they were. If only he wasn't fucking trembling again. 

“I, ah, the normal stuff? Not that I wouldn't, haven't, tried other stuff, if it makes,” he grimaced, “when it made my many, many partners happy. I like everything. I mean, not the gross stuff.”

“You're a virgin.” 

It wasn't a question, so Stiles pretended he hadn't heard it. “What do you like?” 

Derek hummed. “I like that you're a virgin.” 

“But I'm not!” Stiles fidgeted. “We have sex all the time, remember?” 

Derek licked his lips. “We will.” 

A whimper slipped past his lips and he whined, “Derek.” 

“Easy,” he soothed. “I like … bringing pleasure. Assume I make you tremble and beg. Assume I make you come with my fingers in your ass and fuck you until you're hard and shaking again. Assume I lodge my knot against your prostate and rock until you cry out and collapse against me. Then assume I gather you in my arms and bite into your neck, the puncture marks joining the hickeys I've marked you with. And, the next day, as we brush close over breakfast, as we go about our lives, my fingers will slide over those marks. A reminder and a promise. Assume I tease you hard a dozen times a day and leave you pliant and shaking every night.” 

Stiles crossed his legs, the entire world suddenly brighter. When he could swallow past the lump in his throat, he whispered, “Was that necessary?” 

Derek smirked. “You asked.” 

He took several deep—rather loud—breaths, and looked toward the obscured sky for strength. 

“You're baring your neck for me,” Derek said, voice sounding wrecked. 

“I'm not!” 

“You are.” 

Stiles lowered his chin, his breath shuddering. Breaking, he demanded, “Why the fuck am I trembling?” 

“You'll never pass as my mate like this. You know that, right?” 

He peaked at Derek and dared to ask, “Why not?” 

“You smell hungry and desperate.” 

“I am not desperate!” 

“You wouldn't be for long. Not if I was seeing to you.” 

What the shit was happening? “I don't need seeing to.” 

Derek spread his thighs and leaned back in the chair. Where Stiles was all but curled into a ball trying to hide his needy body, the bulge in Derek's pants was displayed proudly. Dragging his eyes away was a demonstration of Stiles' force of will, his teeth clenched with the effort. 

Lowering his hands to his splayed thighs, Derek said, “You need.” 

“Derek....” His body felt plaint and boneless, as if his rightful place was collapsed between Derek's thighs. As if he'd come with a whimper if Derek reached out and touched him. “This isn't right.” 

“It's perfect,” he purred. 

“It's not natural.” 

Derek's palms slid from his thighs to his knees, then back, fingernails dragging. “It is. It's instinctual.” 

He shook his head. Hard. “No. Please, you know what I mean. I feel like a different person.” 

Cocking his head to the side, gaze devouring, Derek said, “I told you once already, sweetheart. Are you ready to hear me this time?” 

Stiles shook his head but said, “Please.” 

“You're mine, Stiles.” He smiled then, leaning forward. “As soon as I smelled you, I knew. You're mine. My mate.” 

A rush of white noise answered his words. “What? Don't pretend right now.” 

“You,” Derek reached forward and yanked his thighs apart, “are” he went to his knees before Stiles, “mine.” With a hungry growl, h buried his face against Stiles' thigh. 

Shuddering, Stiles surged to his feet. Derek's arms lifted to circle his waist, his cheek pressing against Stiles' stomach. Stiles trembled and ached, his hips canting forward even as his head fell back to expose the line of his throat. Harsh breaths escaped his parted lips. 

“Can I?” Derek asked. 

“Wait. No.” He whined. “Wait.”

He was trembling so hard. Aching so hard. He wanted to be on his back. Wanted Derek's weight pressing him down. Wanted to be naked and buried in Derek's mouth. Wanted it so much he felt crazy and out of control. 

“Let me take care of you,” Derek begged. 

“Please. I can't.” Stiles shook his head, again and again, whimpers and whines accompanying every movement. “Please.” 

Derek surged to his feet and pressed Stiles backward. “Lie down.” 

Even as he moaned at finding his back pressed into the cot, even as he writhed and bared his neck, he whispered, “Please.” 

Derek's body lowered atop his, the heavy weight pinning him. His thick, strong thigh pressed between Stiles' thighs. Stiles cried out, appeased and denied, and as desperate as Derek had named him. His hips surged upward as his clutching fingers caught at Derek's shoulders, his nails digging in and dragging. Long, jagged teeth pressed at his throat and Stiles whined, his head pressed to the side in clear invitation. The slide and pierce of fangs. Exquisite pain. A harsh moan tore from his mouth. His body went pliant, boneless. He shattered. As lips sucked and tongue laved, Stiles convulsed and came, a heady cry piercing the air. 

As his brain slowly came back online, he whispered, “Oh my god.” Covering his face with one shaking hand, he repeated, “Oh my god! That was so loud! And you're still … oh my god. Touch yourself, please. I'm sorry. Oh my god.” 

Derek purred against his neck. “No.” 

“But you're, you should. I didn't mean....” 

“This close to you, smelling like you do, I'd knot. I have other plans for my first knot.” 

Right. Because werewolves only knotted for their mates. And he was Derek's mate. Only, now that he wasn't let's-call-it distracted, the revelation was making his head spin. Being mated was a huge deal. Like, life changing. And what sense did it make for Derek to be mated to him? None. It made no amount of sense. 

“So, if this is a joke and your werewolf friends are outside yucking it up—” 

Derek growled, deep and dangerous, and laved his tongue across Stiles' bleeding neck. 

“No, I'm just saying, now would be a great time to yell 'got ya' and I'd consider the whole thing a draw. No hard feelings.” 

“Stiles, this is not a joke.” 

He nodded until his head started to shake. “I hear your serious voice, Derek, I do. I'm just finding this really hard to believe.” 

Derek thrust against his hip. “You'd believe my knot in your virgin ass.” 

His body arched and stretched as a shudder slid through him. How was it possible to be aroused and terrified at the same time? All he knew was, even as his mind buzzed in circles of denial, his fingers clutched at Derek's back. The weight atop him was verging on uncomfortable, he wanted to run away, but he really wanted to stay just like this. Forever—or some equally illogical expression of sentimentality.

“I'm kinda scared,” Stiles admitted. 

He expected Derek to laugh and attribute the words to the idea of them having sex, but he surprised Stiles by saying, “I'm scared, too.” 

“Really?” 

“I didn't mean to … I just claimed you as my mate and you thought it was a prank. Stiles, I'm terrified.” He shifted down the bed and rested his head on Stiles' chest, perhaps as happy to avoid eye contact as Stiles was. “Do you realize how much power you have over me?” 

“Derek, you just made me spontaneously orgasm.” 

He chuckled. “I'll do anything that makes you feel good, every day, for as long as you let me. But you, I was just living my life, thinking I was as happy as I had any right to be, and I smelled you. Option 31 of 50 for a partner I didn't want. That was you. Five seconds later, you owned me.” 

“No one could ever own you. Derek, you're,” he tried to summon the words to explain how impressive he found the man, but finished, “kinda a big deal.” 

“You're a big deal to me.” 

Warmth blossomed. “You're surprisingly sweet.” 

“To you,” Derek said. 

“To me,” Stiles agreed. A grin pulled on his lips and he felt all warm and fuzzy, and fuck. “Okay, not that this isn't weird and wonderful, but I'm covered in jizz. Let me up.” 

“Want me to lick you clean?” 

Even he heard the stutter of his heart. “Nope.” 

Derek bit playfully at his chest. “Are you always gonna be this mean to me?” 

Always … always. When Derek moved to his knees, their faces a breath apart, Stiles realized they had never kissed. Derek's lips parted, seemingly feeling Stiles' attention. Biting his own lip, Stiles grinned and teased, “Maybe.” 

“But maybe not?” 

Stiles lurched upward and kissed the stubbled skin of Derek's chin. “Maybe not.” 

Before standing, Derek kissed the tip of Stiles' nose and said, “I'll take it.”

***

After spending the rest of the evening engaged in a dice game with a few of Derek's team, they returned to the tent. Together. Alone. Stiles was nervous again, a hundred thoughts flitting through his mind. Throughout the game, Derek had taken every opportunity—and inventing a few, Stiles suspected—to touch him. It had felt safe, then. Innocent. Standing between Derek and their bed, nothing felt innocent.

Then Derek pulled off his tee shirt. Stiles closed his gaping mouth with a snap. 

“Oh, come on. What the fuck is that?” 

Derek rubbed a hand down his chest as if expecting to find a spider. Finding nothing, he asked, “What?” 

“You.” Stiles gestured to the smooth skin stretching over the grooves of his abs. “That. That's not fair.” 

Smirking, Derek murmured, “I'm glad you approve.” 

“Approve? My self-esteem just took a nosedive.” 

“I like the way you look.” He stepped closer and ran his hands under Stiles' shirt and up the planes of his stomach. “A lot.” 

Stiles raised his arms, allowing Derek to strip the shirt off him. He sniffed unhappily when his pale, mole-flecked skin came into view. Derek looked so masculine, and he … didn't. 

Leaning forward, Derek licked at the mark he'd left. “Soon enough, you'll trust you're wanted like you trust the sun to rise. Now, Stiles, take off your pants and get in my bed.” 

Stiles obeyed, his ridiculous body trembling. Moments later, Derek cut off the torch and crawled in behind him. He didn't pause or ask permission, simply curled around Stiles' body like it was his right. 

“Tell me about you,” Derek said. 

“If you'd just read my file,” he muttered. “I worked really hard on that essay.” 

Derek's lips pressed into the nape of his neck. “I want to hear it from you.” 

“My mom died when I was young. Cancer.” Funny how that was always the beginning of his story. He wondered, if he got old enough, if that would change. The idea made him sad. Derek's whine spurred him on. “I grew up in Beacon Hills, too. You probably didn't know that.” 

Derek stiffened against him. “No. I didn't.” 

“Yeah. We moved away when I was thirteen, to get me into a better school. Dad's back there, now. The local Sheriff. He'll probably show you his guns when he realizes … he's always bitched about being denied his god-given right to threaten my nonexistent boyfriends. I guess you qualify now.” 

Derek huffed. “I do. And I'll play along.”

“Thanks.” Stiles laughed. “I really love him.” 

“Okay,” Derek said, sounding like he was agreeing to something Stiles hadn't vocalized. It was scary, but kinda nice, too. 

“Other than that, I'm a nerd. I remember everything I read, and signed some agreement at an early age to forsake friends and fun in exchange for a constant reaffirmation of my brilliance.” He stretched against Derek and admitted, “But no one trusts someone my age to know shit about human nature or life, so I'm trying to prove myself at the Bureau.” 

Derek said nothing. Probably because the future was a pregnant elephant hovering over their heads. Stiles sighed, but hurriedly pushed on. “I read your file. I know about Kate and the fire. Laura, obviously. I realize some lines on paper couldn't possibly, just, you can talk to me about it. I know enough not to ask, is all I'm saying. You don't have to say anything, but you can. Christ, not like I make my living as a psychologist or anything.” 

“I keep thinking, if I do enough good, if I save enough lives, I'll stop blaming myself for their deaths. But it doesn't work that way.” 

“Derek, it wasn't—”

Arms tightening, Derek said, “I know. Intellectually, I know. But it doesn't work that way, either.” 

Stiles squirmed back into his embrace. “Things just got serious.” 

“You started it.” 

“Well, then, let me make an inappropriate topic change.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “If you were outside scent range, would your, um, your knot still be a factor?” 

Derek snorted. “Probably not.” 

“Then you should masturbate in the forest.” 

“Stiles.” He groaned. 

“No, come on. I'm going to feel horrible, imagining you dying of blue balls. But I don't, I'm confused. And this is new. And, let's be real, I am a virgin. Are you sex on legs? Yeah, totally. But, I need a minute, and if I imagine you suffering, waiting for me to give it up … just, if you want to do something for me, don't make me think about that. Okay?” 

Stiles found himself baring his neck as Derek rubbed a hand over his stomach. When had he started doing that? Like, all the time? 

“All right,” Derek said. “Imagine me coming with your name on my lips instead.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Thanks.” 

“Now, if you want to do something for me—”

“Ought oh.” 

“You'll let me worry about my blue balls and take whatever you want from me. Understand that what I really need isn't to get off. If I wrap my hand around your cock, that's where I want my hand. If you let me taste your cock, if you curl against me sated and trusting, I'm happy. Okay?” 

His eyes slid closed at the words, at the promise of pleasure. Imagining someone wanting him like that, someone needing him, made Stiles feel more than he wanted to. 

“This is going to change everything, isn't it?” 

“If we're lucky.”


	2. Survival Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be substantial, folks. Fully plotted and in progress. I was going to publish it as a oneshot. But what can I say? I've got poor impulse control and love comments. (Tell me I'm pretty, damn it! I'd beg, but it's only sexy when Stiles does it.) 
> 
> Special thanks go out to my Paiger. She plotted with me and reads every word I write, even when the smut makes her blush.
> 
> Thank you all for the wonderful comments! They make me so happy. :D

Three never-ending, god-awful days later, Stiles was drifting somewhere between crazy and unconscious in the first no-tell motel he had spotted after arriving in Beacon Hills. The knocking had finally stopped, but now the window was being pried open. 

“Hey, fucker!” he yelled. “I'm gonna shoot you!”

The sound stopped and a voice returned, “Please don't. Derek sent us.” 

He snarled even as his head spun and he collapsed back against the bed. “Him, too!” 

Derek was the real fucker. Derek had left him. Derek had turned him into this. This god damn filthy shit show of a human being. Fuck Derek! Fuck the CIA. Fuck—

“In the fucking head! I'm gonna shoot you in your fucking head!” 

“Who gave the crazy dude a gun?” he heard a feminine voice ask from outside. 

“Derek met him on the job,” the male voice answered. “He's some sort of Fed analyst or something.”

“Perfect.” 

Stiles ran a hand over his face, the gun trembling in his hand. That was their cover story—more reality than story, but yeah. That was right. Stiles just wasn't sure he cared. 

“Derek has a message, Stiles. Okay? You're Stiles, and I'm Isaac, and this is Erica. And Derek gave us a message for you, Stiles. A message for Stiles.” 

Stiles sputtered. “I'm a god damn genius!” 

“Okay, right. Sorry. My bad. Derek wants you to pretend you're more submissive than stubborn and let us help you. More submissive than stubborn, okay?” 

“Fuck Derek!” He bared his teeth. “I'm gonna shoot him!” 

“I don't think he should have a gun,” Isaac said. 

Erica snarled. “You think?” 

So, after their night of sugary sweet cuddling, things had gone to hell right quick. Derek, the bastard, had finalized his negotiation and been rushed back to D.C. to debrief. With no time to work their way through Stiles' bullet-point list of relationship factoids—and siding with simplicity—they had decided to claim Derek had found his mate in a stranger, a coworker. Stiles would return to Beacon Hills, stay with his father for the day or two the debriefing would take, and Derek would meet him there. Only, Derek, the CIA, and werewolves in general were fuckheads, and Derek's stupid, stupid mating bite had ruined him. He was ruined! And he couldn't show up to his father out of his mind, so he'd been holed up in a shitty motel suffering through werewolf detox like a heroine junky. 

“Look, we're just trying to help you, you asshole!” Erica yelled. “Are you really going to shoot us?” 

“Maybe!” he screamed back. 

Isaac asked, “But maybe not?” 

He heard the mirror to his conversation with Derek and burst into laughter. Hunched over, he laughed and laughed. By the time he'd come back to himself, two werewolves stood over him and his gun was missing. 

“Crap,” he grumbled. 

“Hey, genius,” Erica called, nudging his shoulder with her boot. “Do you know you're shithouse crazy, or are you too crazy for that?” 

With a deep breath, Stiles pushed himself to a sitting position, squared his shoulders, and announced, “I am aware.” 

Erica laughed. “So you understand I could have ripped out your throat by now?” 

Stiles narrowed his eyes and hissed, “Yes.” 

“That's good, Stiles. That's real good. We need you to—”

“I'm going to knock him out,” Erica said. 

“Derek will be—”

Erica leaned closer to him, her blond curls bouncing. “You want to take a nap, buddy?” 

Still glowering, Stiles said, “Yes.” 

The world faded to black. 

***

When he woke again, Stiles was himself for a shining, glorious moment. Then he wasn't. He was in some sort of cabin, and a man was trying to talk his way past Erica and Isaac. Stiles recognized him....

“Derek said no one else, and that includes you!” Erica yelled, dodging quickly to stop the man from edging past her. “Damn it, Peter!” 

Peter! Stiles found himself startled upright and hissing at the man. Other than Derek, he had the strongest motive for the murders. He was number one on Stiles' suspect list, and he was trying to force his way inside the room. Where was his fucking gun? 

“You heard him,” Isaac said. “Get out.” 

“Well, excuse me for trying to be a good uncle.” Peter thrust a plastic bag forward. “Give it to him, you idiot pups.” 

Peter turned like it had been his idea and sauntered off. Stiles watched the door until he felt a hand at his shoulder, then jerked back, snarling. 

“Easy. Easy,” Isaac said, pressing a blue sweatshirt into Stiles' chest. 

He blinked and his own hands were smothering the sweatshirt against his face. Stiles' body gave a violent shudder, and then he was boneless against the couch. Tears were streaming from his eyes. Derek. 

After long minutes, he managed to lower the sweatshirt and wrap it around his neck like a bulky scarf. Pouting, he announced, “This is stupid. Werewolves are stupid.” 

“Gee, I hope I find a mate. This looks awesome,” Erica grumbled. 

“It's not!' Stiles yelled. “It's stupid. Fucking Derek. I'm gonna shoot him.” 

Isaac said, “We took your gun.” 

Right. “I'm gonna scratch him, then. Scratch his stupid, beautiful face. Look what he did to me!” Stiles gestured wildly at his pouting face and the sweatshirt bundled around his neck. “I'm pathetic.” 

Erica nodded, hard. Isaac grimaced and soothed, “Only a little. It'll pass.” 

Stiles cried harder. “I can't help the way I smell. Where's Derek? I want him. I want to kill him.” 

“You don't,” Isaac said. 

“I do!” He sniffed. “I want to scratch him and bite him, and, and, he should just get naked and lie on top of me.” 

“Ew.” 

“Erica, you're not helping,” Isaac said. 

She laughed. “You think you can help that? We can't fix that. He's not armed, dead, or in jail. That's all I got.” 

At Sniles' sniffle, Isaac edged closer and extended a hand. Stiles recoiled. “You smell disgusting.” 

“Pot of fear stench, meet kettle.” 

Isaac gaped at her. “Don't ever have children. Promise me.”

“I smell?” Stiles whined. “I can't smell. Derek won't let me kill him.” 

“How about a shower, buddy?” Erica suggested, sending Isaac a defiant, you happy? look. “Maybe we can break this stupid fever, huh?” 

“I know I'm crazy,” Stiles said, crying again, though he wished he'd stop. “I'm not crazy. I'm not. I'm sorry.” 

“We know, Stiles. This totally happens,” Isaac said. “Erica was cursed by faeries once—”

“Isaac!” 

“She thought she was three, and finger painted the bathroom with her poop.” 

“You promised!” Erica screeched.

“This will be just like that. Something to go in the vault until the next person goes crazy. Okay?” 

Stiles nodded. “I won't play with my poop.” 

“That's a good boy.” 

“I hate you both.” 

Stiles fell asleep in the shower. 

***

The next time Stiles woke up, he was lying in a bed and Derek's silhouette stood in the door frame. A snarl ripped its way past his throat as he launched himself out of bed. 

“You fucker!” 

“Stiles—”

His nails raked down Derek's cheeks as the werewolf growled. Then Stiles had his legs around Derek's waist, their bodies pressed flush, and Stiles bit into his neck savagely. The instant Derek's blood hit his tongue, the world shuddered and reformed. He gnawed on the wound as blood slid down his throat, a nasty growl echoing in Stiles' throat all the while. 

Derek growled even as he bared his neck. After several long seconds, he yanked Stiles free and threw him to the bed. Snarling at the interruption, Stiles snapped at Derek's fingers when they drew close enough to yank off his shirt. His pants were gone in the next instant, and then Derek's tongue was laving against his throat. Derek's hands were everywhere, petting and caressing. Claiming. He reopened the wounds on Stiles neck. Bit into his chest and stomach, his thigh. Stiles' nails gouged against Derek's neck, into the tender skin of his scalp. 

When Derek captured his hands and pinned them above his head, Stiles whimpered and cooed. Derek's tongue bathed him, licking and licking until Stiles felt enveloped and safe. He whimpered again. Even as he trembled and ached, the crazy frenzy leeched from his body. 

“Let go.” Stiles whined. “Please, Derek, let go.” 

The instant he had control of his arms, he wrapped them around Derek and clung. Terrified, relieved sobs shook his body, and he clung. 

Derek whispered, “I fucked up.” 

“You fucked up so hard. I was … Derek, please.” 

“What do you need? Tell me, Stiles. Anything.” 

Stiles begged, “Hold me.” 

Derek twined his arms beneath Stiles' back, tangled their legs together, and gripped him tight. He could barely breathe. It felt perfect. He couldn't stop crying. 

“I am so sorry. Stiles, you have to believe me. I thought my bite would be enough. I knew separating wouldn't be easy, but I had no idea—” 

“I don't own you, Derek. You own me.” His chest heaved. “Look what you did.” 

“Stop crying. Please, Stiles. Come on, sweetheart. Stop crying.” He buried his face in Stiles' neck. “Stiles, please. You're killing me.” 

He sniffled and gasped until he felt reasonably in control, then took a deep breath and said, “Okay, I'm good. I'm okay. Let me sit up.” 

Derek's arms slowly loosened and then he rolled free. Stiles' gasped, couldn't help it. Holding his breath, he pushed himself into a sitting position. As his mouth curved into a strong frown, his nails dug into his palms. One, two, three … “No. Not yet. Take off your clothes.” 

In the dark room he saw only movement as Derek hurried to comply. Stiles flopped onto his stomach and didn't need to ask for the warm blanket of Derek's body before it covered him. 

“I just, I need this. I'm sorry.” 

“Don't apologize!” 

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow, everything will be fine. And this will be a silly story. But right now,” his voice broke, “right now, I feel.…” 

“Stiles?” Derek whined. “Do you want to hurt me? Please. I want to bleed for you. Do you want to come? I'll, please, tell me what to do.” 

“This. Just this.” Stiles laughed, the sound joyless. “I read the wrong books, Derek. I know the half life of carbon. I know every river in Africa. I didn't know this.” 

“This wasn't your responsibility. It was mine.” 

“You didn't know.” 

“I didn't.” Derek's cheek dragged up and down his spine. “I didn't know. I would never hurt you.”

“I know that.” Stiles let out an exhausted sigh. “Tomorrow. This won't matter tomorrow.” 

Derek snarled. “It doesn't work like that.” 

“Does. I say so, and you have to do what I say.” Stiles closed his eyes, willing the world to disappear. “You do what I say right now, and I say, tomorrow will be okay.” 

***

Stiles' life was complicated. He knew that because of strawberries. He knew that because when it was time to garnish the plates of french toast with strawberries, they somehow made a little heart on Derek's plate. Honestly, he still sort of believed they had formed the shape on their own. Like, he had sprinkled them in a nice, platonic scatter, and they had realigned into a heart while he wasn't looking. Only, that was stupid. 

It's just, everything had gotten complicated. Their cover? They were newly mated coworkers visiting Derek's family while he searched out the serial killer. Eerily similar to reality, right? Only Stiles' interest in Derek's childhood pack was the lie. Except, was it? Why was there a strawberry heart on Derek's plate? 

He had stared at the heart long enough for the syrup to get tacky and the french toast to cool. So, when he heard Derek stirring, he tossed the cold pieces in the garbage and refilled his plate with pieces fresh from the stove. He'd eat his own cold. Still beat the hell out of pop tarts. 

“Stiles!” 

The bellow startled him into dropping the berries in a random sprawl, and he took a few quick steps toward the hallway, eyes wide. When Derek came sprinting into the kitchen, Stiles took one look at his panicked face and mentally located his gun. 

“What's wrong?” he demanded. 

Derek's face had gone blank. Stoic with a side of icy. “You weren't in bed.” 

He laughed. “Give me a heart attack, jeez. I made breakfast.” 

“Why?” 

After a beat, he said, “I don't really know how to answer that? I was hungry?” 

“Why did you make me breakfast?” 

“I thought you'd be hungry, too.” Stiles quirked an eyebrow and edged away to put the plates on the kitchen table. “Come on, sit down.” 

Stiles was sitting, fork clutched in his hand, before he noticed Derek hadn't moved. Carefully, he set down his fork. “What's wrong?” 

“You know what!” 

“Ah.” Stiles shrugged. “Let's just, do over, okay? You miscalculated and I made an ass of myself. I'm fine. It's over.” 

Derek growled. “You didn't make an ass of yourself.” 

“No, I really did.” He shuddered. “I was whiny, stinky, and cussing like a sailor. It wasn't a great look. Erica's going to tease me forever, I'm pretty sure.” 

“No one will tease you!” 

On penalty of death, if Derek's snarl was anything to go by. Stiles smiled softly. “Shh. It's okay. It was a little funny.”

Derek stalked forward and glowered. “This isn't funny.” 

“Not, just, no, not at the time. But retroactively, yeah.” Stiles had to lower his gaze from Derek, his head subconsciously tipping to the side. “We'll definitely laugh about this someday.” 

“I will not.” His eyes flashed red and Stiles' eyes widened. “Not ever.” 

“Not today. I get it.” Stiles found his hands twining together. “Derek, would you please sit down? You're making me nervous.” 

He barely finished his sentence before Derek was sitting, his arms crossed over his chest as he eyed the french toast like a traitor. For long seconds, Stiles could only stare as the silence lingered. 

“Well, it's not getting any warmer, so....” 

“Why does yours look different?”

Stiles froze, an anxious feeling bubbling in his chest, though he didn't know why. Clearing his throat, he edged, “It doesn't?” 

“Is yours cold?” Derek's tone seemed to imply Stiles had set the bedroom on fire. 

“Look, you knock it off!” Stiles scolded. And, why did his voice break like that? “Eat your breakfast and knock it off.” 

Derek growled and reached forward to snatch up Stiles' plate. An instant later, he had Derek's warmer plate vibrating before him. 

“Whatever,” Stiles muttered. He popped a strawberry into his mouth and moaned in antagonistic pleasure. “Thanks for the breakfast, Stiles, it's tasty. You're welcome, Stiles. I'm glad you like it.” 

Derek only crossed his arms over his chest again, his frown so deep his eyebrows nearly merged. 

After his third bite of french toast, Stiles huffed and demanded, “You're really not going to eat?” 

“You can't feed me! I almost killed you!” 

“Did not!” Frustrated, Stiles threw a strawberry at Derek's head. The wolf didn't move, simply let it bounce off his cheek stoically. “Stilinskis are made of sterner stuff, I promise.” 

“Stop trying to forgive me. I betrayed you. Be mad.” 

Stiles groaned. “I'm pissed you're ruining my breakfast!” 

“Stiles!” 

“Fine, okay. You're determined to pay penance, aren't you?” Stiles hummed, thinking, and said, “Kill me a deer.” 

“Don't fucking laugh at me!” 

“Whoa. I'm not laughing. My dad went on a hunting trip once and came home with venison. I know a lot of people don't like it, but I thought it was awesome, and I haven't had it since. So, get me some venison. I want it. Happy?” 

Derek growled, but subtly shook his head. “More.” 

Stiles laughed. “When I was little, like eight, I hit Jacob Clark with a rock and promised to be his slave for a week if he didn't tell my dad. Is that, roughly, what we're doing here?” 

Derek said nothing. 

“Oh, yeah? Just remember you asked for this. You're going to be sorry.” 

“I am sorry.” 

Stiles waved away his sincerity. He could work with this. “All right, what do I want? I want … a bonfire, with smores. Enough for everyone. I can do a little bonding and reconnaissance at the same time. And the deer, of course. Oh, and when I was all crazy, I was positive this place needed a plant, and I kinda still think that. So get me a potted plant. Dig one up, buy one, I don't care. And, and, back rubs before bed for a week!” 

Derek frowned. “That's it?” 

“That's what I want. Oh, and you have to stop pouting.” At Derek's glare, he amended, “Pouting, hating yourself, whatever. Knock it off. I'm an FBI agent, not a porcelain doll.”

Stiles stole back Derek's plate and carefully arranged the strawberries into a heart before sliding the plate back with a grin. “Okay?” 

Derek lowered his eyes before muttering, “Okay.” 

***

The bonfire was … well, honestly, it was ridiculous. Like some signal fire built by a sports team stranded on a deserted island for three months. Like Derek thought his contrition would be directly measured against how many trees he hauled from the forest. (The deer, by the way, was hanging from a nearby tree and huge. The antlers, all twelve points of them, were still intact.) 

It was kinda cute, in a ridiculous sort of way. 

And, honestly, if he ate another smore he might literally throw up. But Derek kept making them and thrusting them into his hands. He didn't have the heart to tell Derek he liked his marshmallows burnt. Not with the guy squinting so seriously at his stick, determined to get a perfect golden brown. 

His family was giving Derek a wide berth, apparently understanding he was very busy performing an absolutely vital task. Stiles didn't mean to laugh. Really, he didn't. But it had been an accident, and he was alive and well, so … plus, after his meltdown, there was no question in anyone's mind that Stiles was exactly what he claimed to be. Strategically, everything had worked out beautifully. Not that he was about to share this perspective with Derek. Stiles suspected he would neither agree nor be amused. 

He kinda missed the old Derek, though. The self-assured, flirty Derek who could make him writhe with embarrassment and unfulfilled lust. He missed that guy. Luckily, he had a back rub owed to him later....

Derek handed him another smore. Stiles groaned, grabbed the stick out of Derek's hand, and tossed it aside. Standing, he sat in Derek's lap. If there had been more room, he would have straddled his thighs because that sounded fabulous, but it was a folding chair, not a couch. So, he sat on Derek's lap, prayed the chair wouldn't break, and nuzzled at his … at Derek's neck. 

“Thank you, ah, hmm. What endearment do you like?” Stiles drew back to look into Derek's eyes. “Sweetheart, baby, honey, love, mate?” 

Derek growled softly, his fingers curling against Stiles' shoulders. 

“Not mate. I'll save 'mate' for, ah, special occasions.” Stiles pulled off the graham cracker and tossed it into the fire. Swiping his finger through the partially melted chocolate, he slipped it into his mouth and moaned. “You call me 'sweetheart,' which I like, by the way. How about honey, or dear? I like 'honey' for when I'm feeling affectionate, and 'dear' for when you're nagging me. Work for you?” 

“I'm more curious about you smelling like gun oil, sweetheart.” Derek twined his foot around Stiles' until he found the ankle holster. “Really?” 

“What was that, dear?” Stiles flashed him wide, innocent eyes. “I didn't hear you.” 

Derek only smiled, his expression fond. Slipping his finger through the chocolate again, Stiles held it up to Derek's lips. “Really, though, thanks, honey. No, hon. Thanks, hon. Suck me, would you?” 

Groaning, Derek parted his lips and let Stiles' finger slip inside. His tongue bathed the digit before his mouth tightened to suck. Stiles laughed and pulled his finger free with an obscene, wet pop. Going back for marshmallow, Stiles smeared it over Derek's lips and leaned closer to lick them clean. As Derek's hands spread and grasped, Stiles pressed close to his ear and whispered, “When are you going to kiss me?” 

Derek smirked and Stiles felt his heartbeat quicken. “Later.” 

“Later tonight, or later this week, or … no, I refuse to go any longer. It's depressing.” 

“Tonight.” Derek's hand landed on his hip and slid down his thigh. “I'll put my mouth anywhere you want it. Are you ready for that?” 

Stiles felt himself blush. “Maybe,” he brazened. “Are you going to be good?” 

Derek nipped at his neck, at his earlobe, and whispered, “The best you've ever had.” 

He squirmed against Derek's lap and felt the game sizzle away, his thoughts focusing on Derek's cock. When his body responded, he wasn't thinking about teasing Derek back to normality. Wasn't thinking about their cover or too-sensitive ears. Wasn't thinking of anything except Derek's hand between his shoulder blades, pressing him into the bed as that cock nudged deeper, grew larger. Caught and rocked. Something between a moan and a whine caught in his throat and Stiles threw his arms around Derek's shoulders, nuzzling closer. His body had started to tremble again, but it no longer scared him. Only felt inevitable and right.

Growling, Stiles nipped at his chin and proclaimed, “Mine.” 

Derek hummed. “Yours.” 

Stiles clung for long minutes, then drew away with a chuckle and stood. “Come on, let's be sociable.” 

The words were like ringing a dinner bell. By the time he got Derek on his feet, Erica, Isaac, and an attractive black man were standing before them. The wolves greeted each other, hands dragging over skin with purpose. When Stiles then received the same treatment, he couldn't help but smile, knowing he was being welcomed into the pack.

“Hello strangers I've never met before or threatened to shoot,” Stiles said with a grin. “I'm Stiles. An easy-going, mentally-stable type. And you are?” 

“Hey, Stiles,” Isaac said, smiling fondly. “You remember Erica. This is Boyd.” 

Stiles grinned at Boyd, but asked, “You couldn't play along?” 

“Ah.” He cast a sideways look toward Derek and said, “I don't think so.” 

Derek nodded in approval. 

Erica met Stiles gaze and smirked. She didn't say anything, but he heard her teasing all the same. Quirking an eyebrow, Stiles asked, “And how's our resident artist?” 

Erica snorted. “Why did I think you'd be less obnoxious?” 

“An eternal optimist, I like it.”

Forgetting that he was surrounded by werewolves, Stiles reached out and shoved at her shoulder playfully. Erica didn't so much as sway, but her chin tilted to the side, baring her throat. Stiles felt his eyes widened at the gesture, but then Derek was tucking Erica beneath his arm and nosing at her temple. She curled closer to him and butted against his chin, a soft purr echoing in her throat. 

“Missed you,” she said. Derek hummed his agreement and Erica whispered, “I miss Laura.” 

“Me too, baby girl.” 

Isaac and Boyd crowded into the makeshift embrace, and the wolves stood like that for long seconds. Stiles stood on the outside looking in, but it was good. Something soft and weird turned over in his stomach at seeing Derek relaxed and enveloped in family. When they broke apart, Derek reached for him, his fingers sliding against Stiles' nape before dropping away. 

The wolves went tense and Stiles glanced up to see a dark-haired guy with an uneven jaw edging forward. For all Stiles recognized him as Scott McCall, the pack's current alpha, the guy looked unsure and nervous. Derek huffed, the sound falling short of a growl but far from welcoming. 

Scott had found Laura, those long years ago, when she was disfigured and on the brink of death. According to the file, Laura had asked Scott to kill her, apparently choosing him as her second so the power of alpha wouldn't fall to her uncle, Peter. Stiles also knew Derek had been rushing home to help search for Laura, but he'd arrived too late. He'd left the pack again soon after, a beta, and had received his alpha status after going against an alpha in South America. 

Stiles remembered back to their conversation about Laura's death. How Derek hadn't flinched as Stiles described Laura's brutal torture, had only said “yellow” as Stiles was about to recount Scott's mercy killing. Watching how the wolves around him tensed, he stepped closer to Derek, pressing into his side. With Derek's arm circling his shoulders, some of the tension bled from the wolf. 

“Welcome home, Derek.” 

“Thank you, Scott.” Derek released a breath on a long exhale. “Thank you for accepting my help.” 

Scott relaxed a fraction and tried out a smile. “It's your home. Thank you for coming.” 

And then an awkward silence settled. After another beat, Stiles said, “Hey, Scott. I'm Stiles.” 

He extended his hand, letting it hover in midair as Derek growled softly and Scott stared at it like a landmine. When Derek's head bowed, Scott reached for a quick shake and then snatched his hand back. 

Scott laughed nervously. “Welcome, Stiles. Make yourself at home.” He fidgeted, then added, “It's all Derek's. Hale land. I'm just....” 

Awkward. To be an alpha on someone else's land. Sleeping in someone else's home. But Stiles knew Scott had invited the FBI in to investigate the killings, so he couldn't be all bad. He was the only one who knew Derek and Stiles were undercover—or whatever they were now. 

“Holding down the fort?” Stiles offered, after the silence had made him twitch. “Everyone seems really happy. Barring the gruesome murders, of course.” 

“There's no scent,” Scott said. “We've tried, everything we can think of, but I don't know what else to—”

“We'll get to the bottom of it,” Derek said. Grimacing, he added, “Together.” 

The sentiment looked like it had caused Derek actual pain, but he squared his shoulders and stood behind his words. Stiles kinda wanted to nuzzle and pet him for rising above, or making a break through, or at least playing nice. He also kinda wanted to keep his hands, so he didn't. 

“Thanks, Derek.” Scott ducked his head, looking pleased. 

Which was when two pretty women came over, one dark haired and one strawberry blond. The strawberry blond had her arm linked with the dark-haired woman's, her chin thrust in the air, and all but dragging the brunette closer. Stiles recognized them from the files the FBI had created on Scott's pack, but he wasn't supposed to. 

Scott tensed, his eyes growing harder. “Derek, you remember Allison, my wife. And this is Lydia, the girlfriend a new addition to the pack, Jackson.”

Derek growled, “Argent,” and looped a protective arm around Stiles' shoulders. Stiles couldn't help but preen when neither of them were introduced as a mate. A true mate was incredibly rare, and he didn't necessarily want to feel the satisfaction bubbling in his belly, but it was there all the same. 

“And Lydia, hi,” Stiles said. “You're pretty.” 

She tossed her hair. “I try.” 

Derek was stiff and imposing beside him, gripping the top of Stiles' shoulder as if physically refusing him the ability to touch Allison. He kinda wanted to break free and envelope the woman in a hug, just to dispel the awkwardness in the air, but he knew now wasn't the time to push. 

Still, he couldn't help but say, “I'm sorry about your grandfather.” 

Allison jerked. “He was crazy.” 

“Still your family,” Stiles said. 

She shook her head, hard. Peaking at Derek, she said, “I hadn't spoken to him in years. I chose my side, and it wasn't his.” 

Silence stretched until Derek huffed a breath out of his nose and said, “Okay.” 

Hoping to end the conversation on a high note, Stiles stretched closer to Derek and gnawed on his stubbled jaw. “Let's go see Peter.” 

Derek hummed in agreement and Stiles said, “Nice meeting everyone!” Then he led Derek away, his mate—damn it!—Derek following easily. Instead of going straight for Peter, Stiles stopped midway and nodded toward the pile of logs Derek had left stacked to the side of the fire. 

“Fire's looking a little low,” he said. 

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You don't have to manage me, Stiles.” 

“But that's my job, isn't it? Not that I'm falling into gender roles, or ready to be a 50's housewife or anything, but we keep each other safe and sane and happy, right? Now just strikes me as a great time for you to lift heavy things as I look on in awe. Am I wrong?” 

Derek huffed a laugh. Expression fond, he said, “You make me happy.” 

Pushing closer, right against Derek's ear, Stiles whispered words just for them: “I'm glad.” 

As Derek set about hauling the logs onto the bonfire, Stiles observed the remaining members of the pack. Peter seemed to be holding court, which surprised Stiles. The way Isaac and Erica had barred his entrance, Stiles would have assumed him to be an outsider. Here, though, Peter sat surrounded by pack, people laughing as he told a story. The newest recruits were all there: Jackson and the twins, Aiden and Ethan. There, too, was Danny, a friend Jackson had made in college before returning to Beacon Hills. 

Stiles was particularly interested in Peter, for his strong motive, and Danny. For all the man was a human, his file had stuck out to Stiles. His internet history, in particular, had been noteworthy. In the last year, things had been mundane, but going back, Danny had harbored a survivalist kick married with a keen interest in human anatomy and weapons. Add in more interest in witchcraft than could be considered passing, and Stiles's interest was definitely piqued. If it wasn't for the werewolf claws being used, the FBI would have hauled him in on suspicion long ago. 

Derek threw the last log on the fire, turned to Stiles with a smug expression, and froze. He sniffed the air, his eyes blazing red, and snarled a warning. 

An instant later, what looked like a pipe bomb skidded across the ground. Even as it exploded, another three were falling to the ground. One hit the ground before exploding, but two exploded in midair. Water sprayed, as well as metal fragments. Though several of the wolves were hit with shrapnel, the water had them all writhing. Laced with wolfsbane, it had to be. 

He rushed toward Derek, who was snarling as his teeth lengthened and hair spread. Derek met his gaze even as he shifted, and shook his head. He motioned Stiles away as he bellowed, “Isaac!” 

The next thing he knew, he had Isaac curled around him, dragging him away from the others. Those around Peter had been hit hardest. Peter was littered with metal and drenched in the poisoned water. On the ground, he rolled, trying to dispel the water as he lodged the metal deeper. An arrow pierced his skin, but he threw himself to the side and avoided the two that followed it. Even as two more bombs sent the werewolves scattering, people rushed from the woods. 

Derek, looking more beast than man, tackled one. Erica intersected another. Scott was rushing toward a third when an arrow caught him in the shoulder and sent him to his knees. When another wave of water sprayed over Stiles, Isaac howled and convulsed on the ground. 

Freed, Stiles watched the strangers rush at Peter, and grasped for the gun at his ankle. By the time he had the safety off, Isaac was doing his best to crawl over him, trying to offer his body as a shield. Grunting at the restriction, Stiles squirmed onto his stomach, set up his shot, and took down the hunter nearest Peter. A shoulder shot, but the man reeled and dropped. 

Peter was struggling to his knees even as an arsenal rained down on him and those nearest him. Stiles squeezed off another shot, but Isaac jarred him and it went wide. Cursing, he tried to stabilize himself, but hesitated as two things happened in rapid succession: a bomb was thrown directly at him, a piece of shrapnel slicing across his left bicep, and a white van tore through the grassy yard to idle near Peter. A woman threw the sliding door open and screamed for the hunters to hurry. Sparring only a passing glance at the woman, Stiles still recognized her. Kate Argent. 

Having taken the brunt of the shrapnel and the wolfsbane water, Isaac was limp and groaning at Stiles' side. Everything was happening too fast. He heard snarls, growls, and screams all around him, but couldn't allow himself to look. Instead, he stood, tripping and stumbling his way closer to Peter. 

The wolf had half a dozen arrows protruding from him, hung limply, and offered no resistance as two hunters dragged him toward the van. Stiles raised his gun, fought the desire to hold his breath, and shot. Frazzled, bleeding and disoriented, he allowed training and instinct to guide his aim. The man crumpled as the bullet lodged in his chest. He was aiming for the second when Derek's body slammed into him and a splatter of blood hit Stiles' cheek. 

Stunned beneath the force and weight of Derek's body, he watched numbly as Scott leapt upon the second man dragging Peter. The hunter had a throat, and then he didn't. Kate yelled an order and the few survivors broke for the van. Some made it. Some didn't. The van sped out of the yard, deep ruts left behind in the grass and mud. Then an eerie, hectic silence fell. 

Feeling half deaf and half numb even as his heart hammered, Stiles jerked into action. Derek. What? Had he? The blood. 

Squirming from beneath Derek, he flipped the wolf to his back and gasped. His eyes were closed and his chest was bloody. A moment of blank panic rocked him, but he shoved it aside. Ripping at Derek's shirt, he tried to find the wound, taking comfort in the steady flow of blood even as his hands trembled at the sight. 

The hole was beneath Derek's left clavicle. Too high for his heart. Too high for his lungs. Laced with wolfsbane, no doubt. But he was alive. Yanking his own shirt over his shoulders—grimacing at the forgotten slash across his upper arm—Stiles applied pressure and looked around for the first time. 

There were bodies. Five. No six, of them. Another two hunters were being tied up, Boyd standing over their prone bodies with flashing golden eyes. Those closest to Peter were either writhing on the ground or seemingly unconscious. One of the twins had the other clutched in his arms, but his expression was more murderous than grief stricken. Allison and Lydia were hunched over a screaming Danny as they tried to keep him from ripping a shard of metal from his calf—the only part of him not covered by a blanket of werewolves, Stiles assumed. When he glanced backward, he saw Erica crouched over Isaac, yanking pieces of metal from his skin. Scott was shoving arrows from Peter's body, obviously more concerned with the multiple bullet wounds. 

“I'm calling the police!” Stiles shouted. When several people started arguing, he yelled, “I'm calling my dad, the Sheriff.” 

No one argued, so he pulled out his phone as he watched Allison run past. He assumed she was going for medical supplies, but still ordered, “needle and thread!” as his father answered the phone. 

“Dad, hi. I'm okay. Don't panic.” 

“What's happened?” 

“A hunter attack at the Hale estate. We need a cruiser and an ambulance.” 

Lydia yelled, “Allison's getting the car.” 

“Okay, the good guys are good, but we've got two hunters upright but in need of medical, and another six D.O.A.”

“Jesus, Stiles!” 

“Hey, we were having a bonfire. There were smores.” 

His dad snorted. “How are the wolves? We've got a werewolf unit in the hospital now, if they want to come in?” 

Stiles glanced down at Derek, couldn't imagine him waking up in the hospital, but he wasn't exactly in charge, so he offered, “They've got a werewolf unit in the hospital, if you want—”

“Fuck no!” Erica snarled, echoed by a chorus of denials from around the clearing. 

“They said, 'thank you, no.'”

“Right,” his dad said. “I'm on my way.”

Stiles spent the next few minutes leaning hard on Derek's wound and muttering encouraging words and apologizes. When Allison tore up in a jeep, riding over the van's tire treads, Stiles grimaced but said nothing. They already knew who the perpetrators were, but evidence never hurt. 

As Danny was loaded into the vehicle, Allison jumped out, dropped a bundle at Scott's feet, and ran for Stiles. She sprinted away before he could thank her, and then Stiles was staring down at gauze, rubbing alcohol, a needle and thread, needle-nose pliers, a jar of wolfsbane-laced gunpowder, and a lighter. 

He couldn't help but look around the clearing, as if a doctor might appear out of thin air. Finding none, he gulped and looked back to Derek's bloody chest. Well, right. 

Listening to Peter scream and thrash, he could at least be glad Derek was momentarily unconscious. Determined to keep it that way, he gripped the pliers, wiped away the blood, and dug in. Three long minutes later, he pulled the bullet free, unbelievably grateful Derek was a werewolf. On anyone else, he would have done more damage than good. The wound was gaping wider, its edges more jagged than when he'd begun. Stiles' hands were covered in slippery, red blood. 

Gritting his teeth, he ripped off a piece of gauze and shoved it in the hole. He gripped the lighter in his right hand, gripped the gunpowder in his left, and prayed. He didn't know what would happen if the wound filled with blood before he burned away the wolfsbane. Wet gunpowder wouldn't burn, he knew, and he didn't know when, or if, the bleeding would stop. He glanced up at Derek's face, saw the dark shadows under his eyes and the pallor of his skin, and grit his teeth. 

Stiles balanced the jar of gunpowder against the wound, ready to pour it in, and bent forward to grasp the gauze with his teeth. One, two, three! The powder was pouring as he clutched the gauze in his teeth, and the lighter was sparked in the next second. The small pop startled him and he rocked back on his heels, nearly toppling over. 

Scrambling upright to look, his stomach turned over. The wound looked worse, horrible. Gunpowder in an enclosed space equaled explosion. What the hell had he been thinking? Flaps of torn skin were spread wide, and blood gushed. 

“Help! Derek needs help!”

“Got it!” Erica yelled. 

She was at his shoulder an instant later. Bending, she pressed the blasted, shredded skin to Derek's chest and said, “Looking good, genius.” 

“I, are you sure? It looks worse!” 

“You're good.” She snorted at him. “What's the needle and thread for? You know we heal, right?” 

Stunned by her nonchalance, he struggled for a witty comeback, but gave up the effort in favor of focusing on the important things—like not vomiting. Instead, he pressed his shirt to the wound again, trying to limit the blood loss. Voice soft, he whispered, “That's for me. Is Isaac okay? Can you?” 

Erica rolled her eyes, looked like she wanted to mouth off. 

“Please? I can't leave Derek.” 

Erica grunted, but said, “When it ends up all jacked, don't say I didn't warn you.” 

“Just hurry.” Stiles tried out a wane smile and said, “My dad will ground my ass if he sees this.” 

Five minutes later, Stiles was pretty sure this was the worst idea in the history of ideas. He liked to consider himself an undercover bad ass, and it looked so easy when the dudes in the movies did it, but a needle being pulled through pain-screaming skin? It hurt. Tears were running down his face. In the most manly way possible, of course. When Erica declared it “good enough” Stiles couldn't look. Just let her douse it with another splash of rubbing alcohol and wrap it in gauze. 

“Thanks,” he grumbled. 

He expected another round of mocking, but Erica ruffled his hair and offered a smile instead. His return smile faltered at the sound of sirens and then car doors opening and slamming. He grabbed the rubbing alcohol, tipped it over his arm, and wiped the blood off on his jeans. Nothing to see here. Just a scratch. 

As if roused by the presence of outsiders, Derek chose that moment to open his eyes. He went from blinking on his death bed to sitting with a murderous glower in under a second. Everything in Stiles seemed to loosen, a ridiculous sense of relief flooding him. 

“God, you're okay.” 

He threw himself forward to hug Derek's stomach, peppering kisses there. Derek's growl shocked him into letting go. Just as he was drawing back to ask what was wrong, noting the flash of red in Derek's eyes, his father was rushing toward them. 

“Stiles, thank God.” He gestured toward the bandage. “What's that?” 

“Just a scratch, Dad. I'm okay.” 

He looked less than convinced, but eventually nodded. Grimacing, he asked, “How's, is this Derek?” 

Stiles looked back and forth between the grumpy looking men. “Yeah. Don't mind his grumpy face. He was shot.” 

“Stiles.” Derek growled. “You were almost—”

“Dear, shush it! You've lost a lot of blood!” 

He tried shooting Derek not-in-front-of-my-dad eyes, but Derek only snarled, “You're not cute.” 

“All right.” His dad looked between them with a frown, but said, “I'm here on official business, so—”

Stiles flashed a winsome smile. “Go. Do your thing.” 

“We're going to talk about that,” he said, pointing at the bandage. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved him off. 

Derek grabbed Stiles' shoulder and yanked him closer. “So are we.” 

Stiles wriggled until Derek released him. “You see him? That guy in the Sheriff's uniform? That's my dad. I don't need another.”

Derek said nothing, but his frown only deepened. When he jumped to his feet and stalked away, Stiles traded glances with Erica, an ominous feeling bubbling in his chest. 

***

What seemed like an eternity later, he stumbled into their cabin with Derek on his heels. They'd both given a statement, but his dad hadn't forced them down to the station—which was a boon, really. Somewhere along the line, the adrenaline had faded from his system and exhaustion had replaced it. Between that and the blood loss, he wanted one thing: his bed. 

Given Derek had fallen into a tight-lipped glower and didn't seem inclined to consider their survival a win, Stiles didn't have high hopes. The door was barely closed before Derek started growling. Well, he could take comfort in his ability to read a room in any case. 

“What now?” he demanded. 

Derek grabbed his good arm, jerked him around, and backed him against the nearest wall. “You need to rethink your tone.” 

The red in Derek's eyes had him trembling and squirming instantly. He licked his lips and fought back the urge to bare his neck with everything he had. “Derek, please, I'm tired.” 

“You're lucky you're not dead!” 

“But I'm not. And guess what? Peter wasn't abducted, either. Thanks to me! I pulled my weight out there!” 

Derek slammed a fist against the wall beside his head. “You're not supposed to pull your weight! You're supposed to stay safe! When you forgave me before, I thought it was a weird quirk. I thought the mating bond made you. Now I get it. Your survival instincts suck. You're begging to get yourself killed!” 

“Am not!” Stiles pushed at his intractable chest. “Knock it off, Derek!” 

“That's not going to work this time!” 

When Stile shoved again, Derek snapped his teeth at him and growled. Stiles felt something inside him crumble, which only fueled his anger. “Stop growling at me!” 

“I'll do more than growl,” Derek said, pressing even closer. 

“Oh, yeah?” Stiles lifted his chin. “You're going to hurt me? That's what you're going to do? You're going to hurt me, Derek?” 

He glared. “I'm going to bite you. I'm going to bite you with intent.” 

Stiles damned himself when he ached for Derek to make good on the threat as much as he feared it. Shaking his head hard, he said, “You won't. You won't because I'll never forgive you for taking that choice from me.” 

Derek slid his mouth against Stiles' neck and whispered, “The only thing I want more than you happy, is you safe. And you, sweetheart, won't survive as a human. As a werewolf, you'll be loyal and brave. As a human, you'll be dead.” 

He wanted to struggle, to escape, but forced himself stiff. Running from a werewolf was never a good idea. Gulping several times, he said, “People die from the bite.” 

“Not mates. Never mates.” His teeth dragged over Stiles' neck. “What else you got?” 

“Derek, I, can we just talk about this later? Please? I'm not saying no, but this isn't the right way to ask.” 

“I'm not asking.” 

“Derek!” He trembled, trying to conjured up an escape. He wanted to bare his neck, to submit, but was terrified. “Please, baby. Please. You're scaring me. And I get that I scared you. Maybe I shouldn't have helped, but being human let me. If I was a werewolf, the hunters would have hurt me. Being human kept me safe.” 

Derek snorted. “Bullshit. You got lucky.” 

Stiles reached forward and cupped Derek's head in his hands. He nosed at Derek's neck, let his teeth scrape. “Maybe. I'm not saying no. But there's a week before the next full moon. You want me as a werewolf, you ask tomorrow. I just need to be asked, okay? I'm your mate, and I deserve that. I'm your mate, and no one asked either of us, but I feel like I've been a good sport. Haven't I? Haven't I been rolling with it? Walking away from you will fucking kill me, and I haven't made a single whimper about my entire life being stolen. I haven't cried or cursed you, or, haven't I, Derek? Haven't I been good? But this, this I get to decide for myself. You owe me that. I'm your mate, Derek, not your prisoner.”

Derek growled even as he pressed his forehead to the wall. He whimpered. “You almost died today.” 

“So did you. You think that didn't kill me?” Stiles dared to wrap his arms around the wolf. “It did.” 

He whined again. “I'm sorry.” 

Stiles found himself trembling. Not out of fear, but something else. He pressed closer, aligned their bodies from hips to shoulders. “I'm totally willing to put this down to instinct if you are.” 

Derek nodded. “Can I kiss you?” 

“Asking is so not sexy.” 

“Just for that,” he snipped at Stiles' neck, “I'll wait.” 

Derek took a small step away from him. As Stiles released him, he took a larger step, then growled, “Get ready for bed.” 

He stumbled away, somewhat surprised that he'd managed to survive the encounter. Despite the threat of pain and lack of autonomy, something in him was pleased by the encounter. He wasn't pleased that he was pleased, but there it was. Something in him liked Derek's willingness to protect him by any means necessary. Part of him even liked being pinned against the wall and growled at. For all he should be terrified or pissed, he wasn't. More like satisfied and strangely aroused. Pleased that his alpha had submitted to him over his own instincts. 

After going through his nightly routine, he slid on a pair of gray sleep pants and collapsed into bed. When Derek emerged from the bathroom, the wolf joined him, pressing their bodies tightly together. Stiles flexed and stretched, felt the weight of Derek along his right side. Moaned happily. 

“Ready for your massage?” 

Stiles laughed. “You don't have to. Long day.” 

“I want to.” Derek straddled his ass and dug his strong fingers into Stiles' shoulders without preamble. “I didn't mean to do that, to scare you. Won't say I didn't mean it, but I didn't mean to do it. If I had moved just a little slower, Stiles, if I had been distracted....” 

Stiles shuddered, the threat of death made real for the first time without Derek's bloody chest or anger distracting him. The event replayed itself in his mind, and he sighed. “I killed someone. Did you know that? Killed to protect Peter. If he's the serial killer, I'm gonna be pissed.” 

Derek's fingers stilled, moved again but gently. “I think he's doing this. All along. I've been terrified it's him. And I'm … he's killing our enemies, and I'm trying to stop him when every instinct tells me to help.” 

Stiles shook his head, relaxing further against the bed. “Not every instinct. If the killer finds out why I'm here, they'll want me dead. Your instincts won't like that.” 

Fingers digging in harder, Derek said, “No.” 

“Maybe that's why this happened now. I know that's silly. But think about it. I'm from Beacon Hills. Originally, at least. My dad is here. Out of all the samples you had, you picked a mate that will bring you home. You found a mate now, a mate who will ground you in the law when you're most tempted to throw everything away for revenge. Maybe I'm, I don't know, maybe this was supposed to happen. Or, do you think that's silly?” 

“I don't. I think,” he lowered his head and brushed his nose along Stiles' spine, “I think I need you.” 

“You took a bullet for me,” Stiles said. “I need you.” 

Derek's fingers slid from his shoulder blades to the small of his back. “Stiles?” 

“Hmm?” 

Kissing the nape of his neck, Derek whispered, “Roll over.” 

On his back, he bit back a groan when Derek straddled his waist and ran strong hands from his shoulders to his belly—fingers twining in the trail of hair leading lower—and back. Body trembling, his cock took notice. Derek felt it, couldn't help to, but simply kept rubbing. Over his throat, down his chest, and swirling across his belly. Leaning forward, Derek laved a tongue across his nipple, blew warm breath until it pebbled, and bit. Arching his back as a moan slipped free, Stiles' hands dug into the mattress. 

“Derek,” he whispered. 

“What do you need, sweet?” 

“Kiss me?” 

Switching to the other nipple, Derek repeated the tease and then muttered, “It's not sexy if you ask.” 

Stiles chuckled. “Want me to beg?” 

Derek bit his nipple. “Always.” 

“Take my mouth. Please. I want to feel you inside me.” Arching his back against another nip, he grinned and added, “Mate.” 

Derek bit at his lip and Stiles found himself shuddering and panting. His lips parted without instruction. Another beg. When a whine slipped past his lips, Derek lowered his mouth and ate it. Broad, strong lips pressed and enveloped. Stiles' bottom lip disappeared into Derek's mouth, and the wolf sucked. Stiles thrust his hips, into the waiting cradle of his mate's body, and Derek's tongue flicked forward. His lips buzzed and came alive under the tease, and Derek's tongue slid forward. 

He moaned. Gripped Derek's hips. Thrust again. 

Derek's tongue surged forward. Twined and teased. Conquered. A whine echoed in Stiles' throat. He'd never been, never ever been kissed like he was cherished, like he was wanted, safe, and owned. Like he could come just from this. 

Stiles tried to hold himself back, tried to keep himself sane. Then Derek stretched out over him, his hips sliding into the waiting cradle of Stiles' thigh. With a roll of Derek's hips, he had Stiles arching his back, his ass pressing into the bed. He imaged Derek there, imagined them pressed together as his body was filled and left aching. He trembled harder. 

He tore his mouth away, whining without a thought to pride. “Derek. I need.” 

“I know you do, sweetheart.”

He thrust his hips again and Stiles arched and keened. “More.” 

Derek nipped at his neck, sucked at his earlobe. Whispering into his ear, Derek asked, “You want my mouth?” 

Stiles bared his neck and gasped, “Please.” 

“Want me to suck you?” Derek's mouth tugged at his earlobe again. “Want your cock sliding between my lips? Want me to tongue at your slit? Can I taste you, Stiles? Will you come on my tongue, baby?” 

He writhed, beyond words. Could only thrust his hips, bare his neck, and tremble. 

“I can feel you, hard. I can feel you needing me. And I will, I'll hold you down and suck you until you come, but it won't be what you really need. My lips, my tongue, my hollowed cheeks, they'll make you whine and shake and go limp as I moan at your taste, but we both know what you need. Not tonight, Stiles. I want you falling asleep sated and waking up hard thinking about it. I want you shifting and needy all day long thinking about it. You know why you need, Stiles? What you need?” 

He whimpered and writhed, seeking sensation as he feared he might come in his pants. Again. Please, yes. 

“Your cock,” he whispered. 

“My knot.” He shifted downward, earning a groan from the lack of sensation even as Stiles anticipated Derek's mouth. What he got first was nibbles and bites, the drag and twirl of his tongue. “That's what you need. My knot, locked inside you. My knot, rocking against your prostate. To feel me, shuddering on top of you, satisfied and spent. That's all you want, isn't it, Stiles?” 

“Derek.” He arched his hips, whined at the lack of friction. “Please. Yes. Please. Whatever you want.” 

His mouth ghosted along Stiles' stomach and his fingers slipped beneath the waist of his soft sleep pants. “Whatever I need.” 

“Yes!” 

The pants brushed against his hard cock as they were roughly yanked down. He felt Derek's breath. Had time to groan, whimper, whine, and beg, and then Derek's hot mouth lowered. Instead of playing with the tip, instead of taking it slow, Derek's mouth plunged and devoured. Stiles tried to arch, felt himself held firm—pinned and helpless. Slammed his head against the mattress with a curse. 

Derek's mouth took him deep, slid up, tongue teasing, and again. The assault, the explosion of sensation unlike anything he'd ever felt, had him shaking on the brink too soon. 

“Wait,” Stiles warned. “I'm, this is—” 

“Want to taste you. Let go, sweetheart. Give it to me. Fill my mouth. Stiles, please.” 

Contorting, he came with a shout. Felt Derek suck him down, his tongue feathering and licking him clean. As he lay, panting, thoughtless and trusting, Derek crawled up his body and enveloped Stiles in his arms. Trembling beneath the force his orgasm, grinning madly, Stiles felt the press of Derek's hard cock against his hip and felt a pang of desperate yearning, of hunger and want. Pressing his sweat-damp face into the curve of Derek's neck, he groaned, the grin never leaving his lips.


	3. Torture and Pineapple Pizza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter, but I was camping and wanted to get a chapter up. I hope everyone enjoys! If you do, and want more, throw a girl a comment-shaped bone, would you? :D

Stiles blinked awake to lips pressed against his neck. Before his mind could form, he was baring his neck for more and humming happily. As the night before came back to him, his lips curled into a grin, but he covered his face with one long-fingered hand. His morning wood gave a twitch of interest even as his cheeks flamed at his brazen behavior. He'd begged. He'd let Derek lick him clean and fall asleep, still hard, in his arms. Because Derek was waiting to fuck him, to knot him, and Stiles had drifted to sleep with his ass pressed tight against his mate's cock, fantasies vivid in his mind. 

“You smell good,” Derek said against his neck. “Wanting me smells good on you.” 

A fine tremor raced down his spine, forcing his body to arch and stretch taut. Sucking in a deep breath, he laughed shakily. “You know, I've always considered myself half asexual. I knew I was gayish, but I always felt just, you know, a little too rational. Colder.” 

Without hesitation or apology, Derek gripped his cock and gave it a slow pump. As a strangled noise escaped Stiles, Derek hummed and said, “You're burning up now.” 

“God. You're....” He couldn't stop the small thrust when Derek didn't continue. “You're hot enough for both of us.” 

Patting his belly with a contented hum, Derek said, “Come on. Get up.” 

“Um, I'm pretty much up.” 

His preen over teasing a snort out of Derek faded to a frown when Derek said, “And in a perfect world I'd spend the morning stretched between your thighs, but I've got plans. Up.” 

Stiles heard the words. He even wanted to obey. Derek was not his personal sex slave. Stiles was a professional, and not a needy cock slut. (He watched porn, okay? That was a thing.) Only, the order to move seemed to be getting lost somewhere between his brain and his trembling body, and he could only pant. 

“Stiles?” 

“Just, for future reference … virgin, okay? I'm not used to....” He cleared his throat. “What are these plans, again?” 

“We're going for a run.” 

He groaned. “Why?” 

“It's good for you.” 

After a moment of debate, he allowed himself to ask, “And?” 

Which explained why he was a lanky guy with some squint-real-hard definition and Derek was … Derek. But he was hard and horny, and heart health was not a valid reason to climb out of bed. Not even close. 

“We're testing how far and how fast you can run,” Derek said. 

“An endurance test?” Stiles tried not to pout, but he felt somewhere between rejected and betrayed. He was all warm and trusting, and Derek wanted to torture and judge him. Taking a deep, deep breath, he force himself to sit and nodded. “Yeah, okay. If that's what you want.” 

He didn't feel any less betrayed when Derek laughed. “Running is where you draw the line? Not going crazy or being threatened with the bite. Running makes you pout?”

Stiles turned his back to dress and forced a weak chuckle. “Nah. It's cool.”

“You know what's not cool?” 

Feeling ridiculous, Stiles tried to joke, “Perpetual blue balls?” 

“Threatening to bite my mate.” Stiles heard the bed creak as Derek stood. “But I need to make you stronger. Not just want to, Stiles, I need it. I thought this, training, might appease my wolf. Humor me, okay?” 

That … made sense. Shaking the weird feelings from his limbs, Stiles turned around to find Derek before him and gave a self-deprecating roll of his eyes. “Sorry. My head's all weird. Ignore me.” 

“Ignore you?” Derek smirked as his green-eyed gaze met Stiles'. “I'm fighting every instinct not to anchor you to me, knot and fangs, and keep you there forever, trembling and scenting the air with lust and come. You think I can ignore you?” 

“Derek.” He shook his head, breaking the dangerous eye contact, as a myriad of strange thoughts and sensations twisted through him. “What did I tell you about saying shit like that?” 

Edging closer, his voice low and wrecked, Derek said, “It turns you on?” 

When the trembling started, Stiles clenched his fists so hard he feared breaking the skin. He whispered, “Something like that.” 

“What, exactly?” Derek slid a finger along the line of Stiles' jaw, purring when Stiles couldn't help but rise his chin and bare his throat. “Tell me what you're feeling.” 

“Derek,” he whined. “Come on. Running, right? We're, ah, you wanted to....” 

Derek's hand curled lightly around his throat and Stiles' cock throbbed. Since when? Since when did he like that? Since when was his body this hypersensitive cluster of want? Derek growled and demanded, “Tell me.” 

“I want … I like your hand on my throat. My knees are weak. But not, like, some candy and flowers weak. Like, I shouldn't be standing. Like, I need to be on them, my hands and knees, with my … I want my face pressed against the mattress.” 

“And your ass in the air?” 

Stiles whimpered and tipped his head even farther to the side, giving Derek full access to the long line of his throat. 

“That. Do you know what that is, Stiles?” Derek ran a finger up and down the length of his throat, every nerve ending sparking at the contact. “You're not a wolf yet. That's not instinct telling you to submit to an alpha. That's you submitting to your mate. That's you begging for my bite. Begging to be mine completely. Is that what you want? Your ass in the air and your neck bared?” 

Stiles felt his eyes sliding closed. He whispered, “Derek, please.” 

“Is it, Stiles?” 

He nodded. Hard. Reached up to grasp at Derek's wrist, needing the contact and the anchor to keep him standing. 

“So do it.” 

He trembled and shook. Ached so hard he wanted to whimper with it. Still, he found himself shaking his head, completely overwhelmed. He opened glazed eyes to look pleadingly at Derek and whispered, “I can't think.” 

“I'm not asking you to think.” 

“I have to. I have to, Derek.” He dropped his cheek to nuzzle against Derek's arm. “I have to decide, not just need. Please.” 

Derek stepped forward, the heat of his body bathing Stiles immediately. Stretching up, he pressed his lips to Stiles' forehead and then stepped back, releasing him. “Meet me outside. We're going running.” 

***

Stiles mopped the sweat out of his eyes, forced one foot in front of the other, and panted out, “I chose wrong.” 

Derek jogged lazily beside him, his brow dry and his breathing even. “You're doing great.” 

“Ha!” He stumbled over … something, nothing, and was hauled upright by a hand at his shoulder. It took three tries, but he eventually accused, “Liar!” 

Derek chuckled, but didn't slow. After another minute of running, the wolf growled and darted around Stiles' body, thrusting out an arm to halt his progress. Something was wrong. Clearly, something was wrong, but Stiles still felt a moment of profound relief as his legs shook and sparked with bursts of energy. He wanted to demand answers, but Derek had his head tilted and his brows furrowed, clearly listening. 

Relaxing, he said, “It's Isaac. Walk to that tree and back fifteen times.” 

Stiles wiped sweat off his face and grumbled, “Bossy.” 

“Stubborn.”

Shoving at Derek's shoulder, Stiles flinched back when the wolf turned his head to stare at him, one eyebrow quirked. Notching his chin higher, Stiles said, “You know, 'please' is the magic word.”

Derek smirked. “Please understand, when I tell you to do something, I have a good reason.” 

Trudging away, he muttered, “Sadist.” 

“Not while I licked your cock clean.” 

Which was infuriating, but also a pleasant distraction as he cooled down. Stiles was still annoyed—Derek was a grueling trainer—but also pretty exhausted, so he wrapped his long, sweaty arms around Derek's neck and draped himself against the other man's larger body. The instant he caught sight of Isaac's expression, he straightened. 

“What happened?” 

Isaac looked to Derek and said, “There's been another murder. Scott wants you there, but we have to hurry. The sheriff's letting us search for scents, but only until the reporters show up.” 

Stiles groaned. Another murder was a necessary evil if he wanted to learn anything that wasn't in the files, but they were three miles out and his legs felt like jelly. 

Apparently reading his mind, Derek turned and crouched. “Climb on.” 

“Come on. Seriously?” 

“Seriously.” 

Which was how he found himself, legs locked around Derek's waist, flying through the forest. It was humiliating. He was humiliated. Only, Derek was really fast and the muscles in his shoulders and back flexed as he ran, and Stiles felt oddly peaceful. Other than that, though, totally humiliated. 

When they reach the house, Derek ordered Isaac to stay and continued around the back. Even as Stiles unlocked his legs and climbed down, he asked, “Why are—”

“Take off your clothes.” As an afterthought, Derek added, “Please.” 

Glancing around the yard and to the line of woods, Stiles cautiously kicked off his shoes. When he looked back to see Derek uncoiling a hose and turning on the water, he both understood and wanted to object. Stiles' scent was sweat atop lust, with a dollop of his orgasm from the night before. Derek wouldn't catch a scent with Stiles in the room, not unless he was hosed down. 

“I'm taking one for the team,” Stiles said as he pulled off his shirt. “I want that on record.” 

“Noted,” Derek said. 

As he pushed his shorts and underwear off, he felt a blush creep across his cheeks. Having Derek nestled against his hard cock was a little different than standing soft and awkward before him. And he was about to be blasted with icy water. 

Notching his chin higher, he muttered, “I am a professional.” 

Derek aimed the hose at him and said, “Yes, you are.” 

***

They'd barely stepped into the room when Scott was rushing forward with a strangled, “Fuck. No!” 

Stiles exchanged a bewildered look with his dad as Scott snarled and paced, his eyes flashing and his wolf surging close to the surface. Even Derek looked enraged. Stiles could understand the wolves being overwhelmed or even sickened. The mutilation was a hundred times more powerful in person. Scott's reaction, though, seemed more personal. 

“Derek?” he asked. 

“It's one of the twins,” he said softly. 

“Oh.” 

He edged closer to the table, but even standing above the body, staring down at the gaping mouth and teeth-filled eyes, he wouldn't have recognized the remains. Both legs were on the ground, several feet away, the right one ripped open and the tibia gone. 

His dad cleared his throat and asked, “Can you tell which one?” 

Scott snarled, “Aiden.” He paced faster, head bowed against the desire to change. “How the hell did this happen?” 

“Son,” the sheriff said, addressing Scott, “why don't you step outside. If there's a scent, Derek will find it.”

Scott looked like he wanted to argue. Also looked like he wanted to kill someone. With a shuddering exhale, he lowered his head and stalked from the house. 

Stiles cracked his neck, focused himself, and delved into his work. “Okay, this is a deviation. The others were killed in their homes, while this is a listed property. Aiden was either lured here, or incapacitated and transported. Given werewolf healing, it will be difficult to discern which. Minor wounds and anything he was dosed with would have disappeared before his death, given the longevity of the torture. Derek, can you smell wolfsbane?” 

He growled and shook his head. “All I smell is peppermint. I can't even smell you.” 

Stiles circled the kitchen table holding the body and leaned down to study the severed legs. They had been cauterized, like the others, but foreign material was burnt into the flesh. 

“It looks like wolfsbane was pressed into the wounds before they were cauterized. If you can't smell that, you can't determine if he was dosed prior to the torture.” Moving to study the wolf's wrists and the thin bands of the restraints, he said, “It's likely he was weakened, or stronger restraints would have been necessary.” 

“It's never been a werewolf,” Derek said. 

“True. It's always been opponents of werewolf equality. This may have been a murder of necessity rather than political statement. We'll need to question the others to learn of his habits, acquaintances, and plans for last night. Not to mention, any enemies he might have, including other werewolves.” 

Derek snorted. “If Peter had any reason to want him dead.” 

“If anyone did,” Stiles said. “We need to keep an open mind, not limit our thinking. Check the rest of the house, would you? Maybe the killer used the bathroom or something.” 

When Derek nodded and left the room, Stiles backtracked to the door and observed the scene again. The kitchen was off the back door, and the body was atop the table. He walked to both windows and looked outside. One overlooked the backyard and a line of trees. From the other, he saw the road, but no other houses. Still, the nearest house wasn't so far away that screams wouldn't have been heard. Forensics on the previous victims had shown the killer's removal of the tongue to be one of the last steps—given Gerard's heart attack during the severing of his legs had rendered the tongue's removal post mortem. So, why hadn't any screams been heard? 

“Were any paralytics found in the other victims?” he asked aloud, though he already knew the answer. 

From the corner his father stood in, he said, “No. None.” 

“Hmm.” 

Derek stalked back into the room with a hand to his nose, looking antsy and angry. “Nothing! I can't smell the previous resident, bleach, nothing.” 

“We're not talking about actual peppermint here, are we?” Stiles asked. 

“No,” Derek agreed. “We're not.” 

Stiles nodded, his list of suspects and research topics growing by the minute. “Okay. Dad, has your photographer documented the exterior of the house?” 

The sheriff nodded. “A couple minutes before you arrived.” 

“Just to cover our bases, Derek, why don't you circle the house, check the edge of the woods, and the road. Look for foot prints, drag marks, and treads as well as scents. Anything that seems to vanish suddenly would be note worthy. Even a lack of scent. We need to know how they got here.” 

Derek nodded, took a step, then hesitated. “Don't go outside until I get back.” 

Stiles looked up, startled out of his mindset. Derek's expression was set, inviting no argument but seemingly ready for one. Stiles smiled. “I'll be here. Don't worry.” 

When Derek turned pinched brows on the Sheriff, John seemed taken aback, but grouched, “You don't need to tell me to protect my son.” 

With a grunt, Derek scanned the room one last time then left, the door shut carefully after him. 

Stiles was staring down at the gooey, teeth-filled eye socket, trying to wrap his mind around a perspective that would find joy or necessity in something so heinous, when his father cleared his throat and said, “He seems worried about you.” 

Humming an affirmative, Stiles tried to convince himself the habit was his own and not something he'd picked up from Derek in under a week. Pushing the thought away, he muttered, “It's the lack of smell. His ears tell him the house is clear, but his nose isn't sure.” 

“Stiles, he's taking orders from you. An alpha is taking orders from you.” 

“Oh.” He shot his father a side-eyed glance and shrugged. Now was definitely not the time for this conversation. “They were suggestions, really.” 

Despite a steadfast refusal to look, he saw his father's arms cross. “Stiles.” 

“Derek's good at utilizing his resources. He's just letting me do my thing. If he disagreed, you'd know it.” 

“Mmm hmm.” 

“Dad,” Stiles whined. “I'm working.” 

“All right, kiddo.” John stepped closer and asked, “What do you see?” 

Stiles took a deep breath and looked around the room, frowning deeply. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing to find it greasy, the burst of water doing little more than spreading and diluting the sweat. “Honestly? I see bullshit. It's meticulously organized and impersonal. This sort of overkill, you'd expect some frantic energy, some joy or hate or lust. But I don't see any of that. The M.O. isn't evolving at all. You'd expect a new idea to hit, a deviation or an improvement, but there's nothing. It's exactly the same. The core idea required a lot of creativity, however sick it is, but I'm seeing a stagnate concept. The killer isn't having fun. It makes me think we might be looking for a team. Like, the murders aren't the end game. Maybe the more sadistic member worked out the ritual and the more goal-oriented member is holding him to it. And I'm thinking magic. Or a magical artifact, at the very least.” 

His dad scratched at the back of his head, but nodded. “Are you still thinking werewolf?” 

“That, or someone really strong. Look at this.” Stiles moved to stand before the severed legs, careful of the tacky blood pooling on the floor. “The saw tracks are clean, not jagged, and none of the victims have died of blood loss, right? Getting through the femur that easily? That quickly? It takes strength. Even with werewolf strength, I'd call this a special skill.”

“Maybe I can get the pathologist to take a closer look at the wounds,” John suggested. “See if we can measure the average depth of each cut?”

Stiles nodded. “Good idea. If the pathologist comes up empty, I'll send it to our forensic anthropologist.” 

His dad snickered. “Gerry will manage. Us regular folks aren't spoiled like you Feds.” 

Shaking his head, Stiles refused to engaged. He didn't need a replay of Thanksgiving, thank you very much. His dad was constantly on his ass to give up the FBI and return home. Stiles knew his dad was proud, just showing his love by going through the motions. 

Looking down at the devastated remains, Still felt a headache forming. “How many of those hunters did you get locked up?” 

John grunted. “Just the wounded. They aren't talking, and we found the van wiped clean and torched. Hauled in Kate Argent, but her sister is providing an alibi and their lawyer went over my head. Without ruining your cover, my hands are tied.” 

“Can you park a cruiser in their driveway? The wolves are going to go crazy, and without anyone else to blame … hopefully a police presence will keep them from doing anything stupid.” 

His dad sighed, but nodded. “I'll see what I can do. But knowing the Argents, they're more likely to cry harassment than be thankful.”

“Thanks, dad.” 

Both men jumped when the door slammed open and Derek strode inside. Stiles relaxed even as he fidgeted under Derek's intense gaze. The wolf crossed into his space and hovered, an annoyed glance being directed at John. 

“Stiles?” he asked simply. 

His shoulders were hunched and his body tense. Stiles wanted to reach for him, but couldn't make himself do it with his father watching. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Nothing but green grass?”

Derek narrowed his eyes, apparently picking up on the game, but responded, “It was yellow.” 

Stiles gulped. Right. Looking to his father, he said, “Well, I think I've got everything I need. We'll get out of your hair before the press shows up.” 

John stared back at him, not missing a thing. He wasn't sheriff for nothing. “Dinner, Stiles. Tonight. You two bring the pizza.” 

He watched Derek nod in his periphery and flashed his dad an over-bright smile. “Okie dokie. See you later, Daddio.” 

***

After a block driven in brittle silence, Derek pulled into a grocery store parking lot. As soon as the engine died, Derek was reaching for him. Stiles leaned forward, expecting a kiss or a hug, but was halted by the press and slide of Derek's hands. Along his neck, over his face, and then Derek had his wrists. He dragged them across his own neck and kissed at Stiles' pulse. 

“Derek?” 

“I couldn't smell you.” Derek laughed, the sound edging between self-deprecating and hysterical. “Couldn't smell myself on you. I, it wasn't good.” 

“Hey,” Stiles said softly, “it's okay. I'm right here.” 

Derek bared his teeth. “It's not okay. I'm crazy half the time. Mad with guilt. Mad with the need to protect you, to make you stronger. I need to finish the claim, to fuck you. I want to kill anyone who talks to you. The full moon's creeping closer, and my wolf's under my skin, fighting for control and getting stronger every hour. I haven't been this wild since I was a fucking teenager.” 

Stiles petted his cheek, a soft smile curving his lips. “Well, it wouldn't be fair if I was the only crazy one, right?” 

“I could hurt you!” 

He laughed, couldn't help it. At Derek's frustrated growl, he held a hand up in apology, his chest still heaving with laughter. “You won't.” 

“You don't know that! You can't. I don't know that.” He lowered his head, his shoulders heaving for an entirely different reason. “I would never purposefully hurt you, but I keep losing control.” 

Stiles curbed his smile, trying to match Derek's seriousness. “Look, okay, I have a secret weapon.” Shit. He was smiling again. “If you really scare me, I'll start crying hysterically. Would you, or would you not, lick the tears from my cheeks?” 

Derek shook his head. “You need to take this more seriously, Stiles.” 

“Nah. I'm done with this conversation.” He returned Derek's glower with googley eyes of his own. “Look, I'm not giving you permission for anything. You behave your fucking self, okay? But I've got bigger things to worry about. You're not going to kill me. Anything else? I can deal.” 

 

Slamming his fists against the steering wheel, Derek snarled, “You're going to deal with me raping you?” 

“Let's be real, it would be dub-con at worst.” At Derek's incredulous stare, he shrugged. “I read smutty X-Men fanfiction. You're the one who mated me. But seriously, I'd be all, 'wait, no, don't … yeah, okay, harder.' Again, not that I'm giving permission, and that's assuming my hysterical-tears plan fails. I'm just saying, Derek, you've warned me, okay? I'm the one doing this. I'm not against being a werewolf, and I'm not against fucking you. I just want a minute to catch my breath. If I wasn't willing to risk it, I'd do the safe thing and give in. Which, really, means I'm torturing you for pretty much no reason. So I'm the dick here. Okay? Let me get my head right and I'll fix this.” 

A soft growl filled the car. “Stop making excuses for me.” 

“Stop being a martyr.” 

A long silence fell which Stiles, surprisingly, felt no need to fill. Finally, Derek snorted. “X-Men fanfiction? Seriously?” 

“Gambit/Wolverine does it for me. What can I say?” 

“I'm starting to get why you're a virgin.” 

Stiles grinned. “Because I couldn't find a growly, dominant type to counteract my smart-ass persona?” 

Derek started the car, frowning. As he pulled forward, he muttered, “I'm not Wolverine.” 

“You're so Wolverine.” 

***

Pulling into his father's driveway hours later, Stiles felt strained to breaking. The pack was in an uproar, Ethan was a mess, and leaving hadn't been a popular decision. As it was, they were a little late. Scott and Derek had spent the last hour talking Ethan and Jackson out of attacking the Argents. Now that a werewolf had been killed, they'd been eager to pin the murders on them, completely ignoring Gerard's death. Ideally, everyone had been made to see reason and his father wouldn't be called away from dinner to arrest anyone. Still, he felt like he'd been up for days and Derek was tense and silent beside him. 

“My dad knows something's up. You get that, right?” 

Derek rubbed a hand down his face. “Tell him the truth. If you want.” 

“You ready for the inquisition?” Stiles asked. 

“Don't have much choice.” 

Throwing the door open, Derek got out and grabbed the pizzas from the back seat. He cracked his neck twice, set his expression, and marched toward the door. Groaning, Stiles climbed out and followed after him. This was going to be awesome. 

Greetings exchanged, Stiles watched Derek spread the three pizzas on the counter. One pepperoni and mushroom for his dad, one meat lover for Derek, and one pepperoni and pineapple for himself. It was overkill. A mile of it, but he'd panicked. 

Speaking of panicking, he watched his dad reach for the meat lovers in slow motion. The evil mastermind stared Stiles down the entire time, a glimmer of a smile twisting his lips. It was like a split-second, slow-motion game of poker. Stiles was willing to forego heart health just this once, if it put his father in a better mood. Except, allowing the meat lovers was a blatant admission of guilt. Did he pretend? For how long? Was the pretense anything but pretense at this point? Why was his dad grinning like that? 

“We're mated!” Stiles blurted. “For real. Eat your damn slice of sodium, see if I care.” 

His dad laughed as Derek blinked. Stiles grabbed the entire box of pineapple pizza and dragged it to the table. Head bowed, he went to work on his first piece, moaning softly as his stomach grumbled in acknowledgment of his hunger. Allison had been shoving food at the pack all afternoon, but he'd been too anxious to eat. 

When the container of pepper flakes was set before him, he looked up and met his father's eyes. Stiles smiled and John clapped a hand to his shoulder. The world seemed to settle and slow. 

He muttered, “Thanks, Dad.” 

“You're welcome, kiddo.”

The peace lasted an entire slice of pizza. Derek had eaten three, his eyes glued to the table. 

“So, Derek, you've been in South America, right? What does that entail? Threat elimination?” 

Stiles paused mid bite. Did that sound like a fancy term for assassinations to anyone else? Judging by Derek's snort, Stiles wasn't alone. 

“Sometimes,” he agreed. “Mostly, I'm in negotiations. Intelligence gathering and resource mapping.” 

John nodded. “That's good. Are you under contract?” 

Setting his pizza aside, Derek laced his fingers together. “No. I'm free to quit or ask for reassignment.” 

“Good. A conflict zone is no place for my son.” 

“Dad!” Stiles waved his hands anxiously. “Come on. We've been mated a week, okay? Let's put a pin in the big questions.” 

Ignoring Stiles entirely, John stared into Derek's face, his own pizza pushed aside. “He likes to ignore things and hope they go away. Likes to ignore danger and pretend bravery will keep him safe. My son sacrifices his needs to take care of other people. If he tries keeping up with you, he'll get hurt.” 

“I'm right here! And I'm a bad ass! Like, old western, quick draw stuff. I'll be armed and dangerous, okay? Just—” 

Derek raised a hand to halt his rambling and said, “Stiles' safety is my first concern, sir.” 

“John,” his father corrected. “Are you going to turn him?” 

“Yes,” Derek said immediately. 

Stiles squeaked. “Hey, now, we're still in negotiations. Really, Dad—”

“As a mate, the bite is guaranteed to take,” Derek said. “He's too brave for his own good. Living in my world, he will get hurt.”

Fuming, Stiles grabbed what was left of his dad's pizza and threw it toward the trash can. He missed. Damn. At his dad's frown, he declared, “You don't deserve meat. Neither of you do.” 

Derek pushed his plate to a safer location as John smirked. An instant later, John was refocused, his face once again humorless. “Freshly mated werewolves are put on leave. They can't control themselves to do office work. What makes you think you've got the control to investigate murders tied up with the deaths of your family?” 

Stiles groaned. “Don't pull any punches, dad. Damn.” 

A low hum rolled in Derek's throat. Stiles knew only respect for his father kept it from turning into a growl. Crossing his arms before his chest, Derek said, “It needs done.” 

Stiles fidgeted. He knew how nonvocal Derek was. Saw his mate's warning and order to back down in every line of Derek's body. His dad either didn't notice or ignored it, because he charged forward. 

“And your control? The moon's nearly full. Do you have a temper? How irrational are you? Is my son safe? Should he be taken from you?” 

Stiles gasped. “You're trying to piss him off!” 

Derek took a shuddering breath and leaned across the table, closer to Stiles' father. Eyes cold but not flashing, Derek said, “I am in control.” 

Silence fell. Stiles sang a little song in his head, eyes wide. Finally, John nodded. “Want another slice?” 

***


	4. Cock and Fangs

Sitting in the old Hale house—rebuilt by Laura before her death—Stiles felt keenly like an outsider. Death, though, always had that affect on him. Even his mother's viewing, where he'd had more right to be than most, he remembered feeling isolated and defensive. He'd wanted to wallow, to hide. Instead, strangers had invaded. Long after the lengthy sickness. Long after he'd cried himself out. When all that had remained was numb anger and confusion, they'd arrived with critical eyes to weigh his love and grief. 

That was his role now. He was the intruding stranger. Worse, he was obliged to judge. Did Lydia seem unaffected? Was Peter's hand on Ethan's shoulder genuine or a ploy? Boyd's stoicism, Erica's gruffness, Isaac's unease … even as his mind weighed and judged, Stiles judged himself harshest of all. He wanted to be part of the pack. Wanted to leave them to their grief. Hated holding himself apart, silencing his empathy, and viewing these people with cold, analytical eyes.

Sighing, Stiles shifted on the uncomfortable chair. He was literally in a corner, far from the others, and sitting on a straight-backed wooden chair that had been, until tonight, the resting place of an ornamental teddy bear. The bear, as hard and uncomforting as the chair, sat in his lap now. Every once in a while, he ran a hand through its stiff fur. 

They'd pulled a bottle of wolfsbane liquor from somewhere and Ethan was good and drunk, Jackson matching him shot for shot. Danny was pressed closed to Ethan, allowing his lover to lean on him, rant into his ear, or hide his face against Danny's shoulder in turns. Huddled close on the couch and the floor at his feet sat Jackson, Lydia, Allison, and Isaac. The group's mood shifted with Ethan's. Jackson was quick to mirror his anger and add threats and curses, Lydia nodding along with a hard expression. Allison was still trying to feed everyone and subtly push a bottle of water into Ethan's hands. Isaac sat with a hand resting on Ethan's knee, otherwise silent.

When he and Derek had arrived, Isaac had tried to wave him over after Derek joined Scott at the dining room table, but Stiles had shaken his head, deposed Teddy of his seat, and been forgotten. Instead, he'd observed. Observed Peter, sober and twitchy, pacing between the back of the couch and the window, where he'd draw back the curtain and peer outside for minutes at a time. Observed Erica and Boyd standing tense and alert by the door.

Headlights lit up the window and a round of growls echoed. Giving Teddy back his seat, Stiles made his way to Derek, his mate tracking his movements. 

“Argent!” Peter snarled. 

The house erupted. Allison's quiet, “Oh no,” barely audible. As Peter tore out of the house, Derek, Boyd, and Erica on his heels, Scott lurched toward the couch and snarled an alpha command of, “Sit down!” 

As the wolves whined and growled behind him, Stiles pushed the curtain aside and peered out. He recognized Chris Argent as the single stranger trapped midway between his car and the house. Derek was holding a murderous, raging Peter back, the two Hale's stopping Chris' advance. Boyd and Erica had circled behind, refusing him the ability to retreat to his car. Standing motionless at the center of the fray was Chris, both his hands and his chin raised. 

“Shit.”

Stiles pulled his gun, flicked the safety, chambered a bullet, and stepped onto the porch even as Scott ordering him to stay inside. Derek's head snapped toward him in the glow of the porch light. His voice vibrated with fury and command as he ordered Stiles away. Stepped off the porch, he realized he'd found a real drawback to being a werewolf. Derek was bossy enough without the ability to control him. 

“Stiles! Get your ass in the house!” Derek roared. 

Even Peter stopped his struggling to order, “Stay back!” 

He took another step. Given the wolves were all facing Chris, he knew they couldn't hear any threats from the woods, but asked, “He's alone, right? And unarmed?” 

Derek yelled, “You don't know that!” 

“Let's find out then!” Stiles yelled back. To Chris he said, “Put your hands behind your head.” 

“Take another step,” Derek said, his voice sounding darker and more dangerous than Stiles had ever heard it, “and you'll be sorry.” 

He huffed out a breath. “Boyd, search him. I've got you covered.” 

Stiles held Chris in his sights even as Peter growled, “We don't need your gun.” 

“No,” Stiles agreed, relieved when Boyd edged forward to pat Chris down. “What you need is someone who hasn't lost a pack member and whose instincts aren't dialed to murder spree. Look, he's not a suicide bomber. He's here to talk.”

“We don't have anything to say to him,” Erica said. 

Boyd stood back and declared, “He's clean.” 

“Okay—” Stiles started. 

Derek cut him off with a growl and demanded of Chris, “Say your piece, Argent.” 

Peter pushed away from Derek with a snarled, “Get off me!” 

Once released, Peter paced circles around Chris, the hunter's eyes tracking him for a moment before turning to Derek with an obvious force of will. He inclined his head and said, “Derek. I heard you were back in town.” 

“We're not exchanging pleasantries. Speak.” 

“I want to call a truce.” 

“Kate wants a truce?” Peter scoffed. 

“No. She thinks you're behind the murders. She thinks you sacrificed a pack member to throw us off your trail.” 

Growls and snarls lit the air, from the wolves around him to the wolves within the house. Stiles flinched, wishing the words had been left unspoken. 

“I don't,” Chris said. “I think we've both suffered losses. I know we're the most convenient target for your rage. I know that if you retaliate now, things will escalate. We'll be too busy fighting each other to stop this killer. I think that's why your man was killed.” 

“Pretty words,” Derek said. “But by your own admission, you've never been able to control Kate. She attacked us yesterday. If we retaliate, we won't be the aggressors. You want us to wait for her next attack?” 

Chris grimaced, his head bowing. “I can't make the past right. We both know that. But let me take a promise of truce to Victoria. Let me try to stop the bloodshed.” 

Peter snorted. “So you can kill us while we sleep? While we roast marshmallows? We'll have peace when every one of you is in the ground.” 

Chris looked Derek in the face and said, “The killer wants us divided. You need to look after your own house. Promise me you're doing that, and I'll buy you some time.” 

Peter snarled and paced. Given the hunters had gone straight for Peter, it was clear which wolf they were putting their money on. But going through an entire pack to get at him hadn't proven easy, and Chris was trying to avoid a second showing. 

“That's why Derek's here,” Stiles dared. 

“I'm not doing this!” Peter yelled. “If I wanted to pay homage to my family, I'd incapacitate every damn hunter, cram them in a house, and light the fucking thing on fire!” 

“The I'd-have-done-it-differently defense is pretty common among the guilty,” Stiles muttered. 

Peter curled a lip at him as Derek snarled, “Stiles! For fuck's sake!” 

He shrugged. “Well, it is.” 

As he edged away from Derek's expression—fairly certain they would be having a Very Serious Discussion later—Scott stalked out of the house. He marched forward until nearly nose-to-nose with Chris and said, “Truce. You get one chance, Chris. We won't attack, but you break it and we'll kill you. We'll kill all of you. Now get in your car and leave us to mourn!” 

Erica and Boyd stepped aside, but Chris didn't immediately retreat. Licking his lips, he whispered, “I'm trying, Scott. I'm trying to protect my daughter. Tell her—”

“Go!” 

Nodding, he retreated to his car, started the engine, and drove away. The wolves stood sentinel until long after the sound stopped registering in Stiles' human ears. What he could hear, though, was the low, steady growl echoing in Derek's throat. 

Really, now seemed as good a time as any to return to the house. Nodding to himself, he cast a sideways look at Derek and scurried inside. A step past the door frame, he came up short beneath the pack's attention. Their expressions were varied. Well, all of them seemed to foretell his eminent demise. The variance was between Allison and Isaac's concern, Lydia and Danny's disbelief, Ethan's resentment, and Jackson's excited smirk. Maybe he'd overstepped? 

He was still frozen, staring at them, when Derek grabbed the back of his neck and dragged him farther into the house. Stiles wouldn't say the grip hurt, but Derek was certainly getting his point across. 

“Derek—” he started. 

“Don't! Just don't! If you know what's good for you, keep your damn mouth shut!” He shoved at the back of Stiles' neck, making him stumble and fight to keep his feet. “But you don't know what's good for you, do you? Those people! Those people, Stiles, they killed my family. They want us dead! I've threatened and pleaded and bargained, and you—”

“Derek,” he whined, looking around at their audience. 

“What? You disobey me in public, but I scold you in private? That's not how this works!” 

“Fine!” He cracked his knuckles and thrust his chin into the air. “Let's do this! You want to know why I went out there?” 

Derek took a step forward, his eyes flashing. “Stiles, I'm warning you.” 

“Because you people were so busy acting like animals—”

Which, maybe, not the right thing to say, because an instant later Derek's claws were digging into the back of his neck and Stiles was being dragged to the corner. He wanted to struggle, to kick and scream, but forced the instinct down with a snarl. Then his nose was in the corner and Derek was forcing him to his knees. 

“Don't move! Don't make a fucking sound!” 

Sputtering, Stiles said, “Are you—”

Derek roared, “Red! Red, damn it! I'm going to bite you!”

A whisper of fear veined through Derek's rage, and Stiles believed him. With no one to witness but the walls, he rolled his eyes and went still. Can't have a civilized conversation. Oh, no. Let's all growl and storm around threatening to bite people. 

The silence in the room lingered for long moments, awkward and tense. Then a bleary voice demanded, “You're not gonna let Derek bite him, are you?” 

Derek growled and said, “It's no one's damn business.” 

Stiles heard the creak of the couch, but couldn't see what was happening. Only heard Ethan's intoxication as the wolf said, “Danny's been waiting, waiting a year for the bite! Aiden's spot, if anyone gets it, it'll be Danny. Not some … some stranger!” 

“Scott put a cap on werewolves,” Allison explained, voice nervous. “We don't want to expand too fast and scare people.” 

“Not my decision. Not my problem.” Stiles grimaced at the brittle sound of Derek's voice. Heard his mate begin to pace. “Drop it.” 

“That's bullshit!” Movement accompanied the sound, as well as glass being knocked over and people hurrying to minimize the mess. “Danny's more pack than you, Hale!” 

“Ethan,” Isaac warned. “Let's talk about this in the morning.” 

“Scott's your alpha,” Derek said. “Don't blame me for his rules.” 

“Blame you for him! If you'd been here, Laura wouldn't have died! We all, we all know it. Off saving the world? Running away, more like. She died and you aba … left us with Scott. Tail between your fucking legs. With Scott!” 

Stiles heard a thump and a scuffle, Erica's voice snarling, “Shut up!” 

“Never shoulda been! We all know!” A dull thud mingled with Erica's whine, and then hard breathing as Ethan struggled to his feet. “She was crazy, half dead when she settled for … our alpha. The first one to find her. That's all! Jackson. Or you, Derek, if you'd fucking been here!” 

Boyd's hard voice declared, “Ethan, that's enough.” 

“You always show up too late!” he screamed at Derek. “Laura. Aiden. Before. Your family. Think they waited for you to save—”

Stiles heard a crash, scattered cries of shock and admonishment, and Scott's, “Jesus, Peter.” 

Peter's voice was cold, emotionless. “He said enough.” 

Stiles was hunched in on himself. His disobedience was no longer the point, but he'd sit in the corner forever if the alternative was drawing attention to himself. Apparently, everyone else felt the same. There was nothing but silence for too long. 

Jackson said, “Scott, man, you know he didn't mean that. He's just drunk and messed up.” 

“Maybe he's right,” Scott said. “I've tried so hard for all of you, but I can't find this killer. I can't keep everyone happy. If you want to follow Derek, follow Derek. I won't blame you.” 

Stiles listened to him storm from the room. Listened to Allison call his name and hurry after him. Listened to another deafening silence. He opened his mouth, desperate to crack a joke and break the tension, but forced himself silent. 

“We're leaving, Stiles.” 

No one spoke as he stood and followed Derek from the house, his head bowed as he made a study of the hardwood floor. Then the grass. Then the linoleum of their kitchen. Sucking in a deep breath, he raised his head and saw Derek plop gracelessly onto a kitchen chair. 

“Derek—”

“Go to bed, Stiles.” 

“I'm sorry. This is all my fault.” 

“It's not.” Derek ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Go to bed.” 

“Are … will you....” 

“I'm going to sit here awhile. Go to bed.” 

He hesitated, his body bouncing with nerves. He wanted to curl around Derek's feet and refuse to leave. Wanted to crawl into his lap. Or make him cookies. Wanted to come up with the perfect words to make everything go away. He didn't have perfect, only his own truth, but he couldn't leave things as they were.

“You know, my mom was pregnant when she got diagnosed with cancer.”

Derek huffed. “Stiles. I'm tired.” 

“Just let me, okay?” He took a deep breath and pushed forward, even though it was the last thing he wanted to be talking about. “She got an abortion. For the chemo, you know? But she thought about it first. Just a few weeks, but my dad has never forgiven himself. He used to drink and talk about it. Blame himself for her death. What if he'd gotten a vasectomy like they'd talked about? What if he'd worn a condom, or come home late for work that day. What if, what if, what if. His guilt almost made me an orphan. And it was the last thing in the world my mom would have wanted. Derek, your guilt? I didn't know your family, but I know they wouldn't have wanted their deaths sentencing you to a half life. No one wants that. Derek, it's a betrayal of their memories.” 

Derek met his gaze and sighed. “I hear you, okay? I hear you. Now go to bed.” 

He nodded. “Good night. I am sorry.” 

As he walked toward the bedroom, Derek said, “I'm turning you before the full moon. Pick a day, or I'll pick one for you.” 

Stiles paused, hung his head, and muttered, “Okay.” 

***

He woke up early the next morning, got a nice, hot shower, and spent a good two hours just him, his laptop, and his trusty hotspot. He had three documents open: creatures capable of obscuring scent and sound, magical artifacts/spells capable of doing the same, and shops/covens within a hundred mile radius. His first step was talking to someone a whole lot more knowledgeable on the subject than himself, and he'd already sent out several emails asking for information and interviews.

Stiles was hitting send on his latest email when he heard a sleep-muffled call of, “Baby?” 

Was that him? Was he “baby?” Funny, considering he'd spent a good few minutes in the corner....

Rolling his eyes at his own bad joke, Stiles walked to the bedroom and edged in quietly, half expecting Derek to still be asleep. But he wasn't. He was sprawled across the bed, blankets kicked away, in a pair of boxer briefs and nothing else. 

“Take off your clothes and come back to bed,” Derek said, the long line of his body arched in a lingering stretch. 

“I … okay.” 

After pulling off his shirt, he popped the button of his jeans and pushed them down nervously, licking his lips as he moved. A polite person might have looked away as he got undressed. Derek was not a polite person. Kicking the clinging material away from his feet, Stiles grimaced at the botched show and hurriedly threw himself into bed. They both bounced and Derek snorted his amusement. 

Eyes wide, Stiles ended up half a foot away from him, balanced on his side as his hands roved from position to position, trying to look casual. 

Derek smiled. “I cheated you out of a back rub.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “That's what I was thinking about last night, a back rub.” 

“It's a new day. Pick. Your stomach or your back.” 

Part of him—guess which part—wanted to roll to his back and watch Derek straddle his hips. Wanted to grow hard and needy beneath him. Another part wanted desperately to be on his stomach. To avoid eye contact and dissolve beneath Derek's grounding touch. Feeling shy, he crawled onto his stomach and looked over his shoulder at Derek. 

“Is this okay?” 

Derek hummed his agreement and moved to straddle his ass. Determined to pretend the added weight wasn't pressing his hips into the bed, Stiles closed his eyes and focused on the fingers trailing up and down his spine. When Derek's fingertips slid over the nape of his neck and into his hair, a sigh slipped free and his body went lax. 

“You're, like, surprisingly good at this,” he said. 

“I like touching you.” 

“I … yeah.” 

Derek's hands moved to his shoulders and dug in, teasing a happy moan from Stiles. He thought about how gentle Derek was being, how carefully he was with his strength. For all Derek's expectations and demands grated on his nerves, he couldn't deny the wolf's earnest concern for his safety. It was just a little ironic. For years, he'd focused on himself and his career, determined to put his goals first and preserve his autonomy. He'd thought, if he ever found someone, it'd be easy. No messy drama. Maybe they'd bicker about the thermostat or what tv show to watch. Anything more than that, though, and he'd always thought he'd rather be alone. Fate, apparently, thought he needed something else. Because Derek wasn't easy. He didn't hesitate to be very, very difficult. Yet, here the wolf sat, selflessly determined to make Stiles feel good. 

“I keep messing this up,” Stiles whispered. “I don't mean to.” 

Derek's hands flinched at the words, then resumed rubbing. After long seconds, Derek said, “I'm proud of you, Stiles. My stomach's tied in knots, but I wouldn't pick anyone else. I think … I honestly think we're mates because you're meant to be a wolf.” 

Stiles huffed out a small laugh. “Because nothing says werewolf like a virgin bookworm.” 

Derek wriggled his hips, as if reminding Stiles he wouldn't be a virgin for long. Trailing his hands up and down the length of Stiles' back, Derek hummed. “I said it before, but I was growling, so maybe you didn't hear. You'll make a gorgeous wolf. Brave and loyal and fierce. Having you rule by my side, I'll be proud. Lucky.” 

Of its own accord, his body arched and stretched as a pleased hum echoed in his throat. “There you go, being sweet again.” 

Leaning down, Derek pressed a kiss to his nape. The caress seemed to radiate heat. To his fingers and toes. Deep into his chest, until something ached. 

“I … never mind.” 

Derek traced figure eights into his skin, leaned down to kiss between his shoulder blades. “What?” 

“Nah. I don't wanna ruin this.” 

The press of Derek's mouth changed to the rough drag of his tongue, teasing a shiver from Stiles. Derek whispered, “Speak.” 

“I'm proud to be your mate. Derek, I … I want you to know, I trust you to keep me safe. That probably hurts to hear, and I'll stop making it so hard for you, I swear, but I, you said, about ruling at your side? Imagining that, I know you'd move mountains to keep our pack safe, and I, just … I trust you, is all.” 

Derek shifted down his body and Stiles was engulfed by the warm weight of his bare chest. Nuzzling at his spine, Derek whispered, “That's a lot.” 

Stiles stretched, his body pulling taut, everything aching. His cock. His heart. “If … I'm ready, if you want.” 

He heard Derek's breath stutter. Felt himself smiling softly. Derek asked, “Ready for what, lover?” 

“That. You. Everything.” Pressing a burning cheek into the mattress, he said, “Cock and fangs, right? That's what you said. Pervert.” 

Derek chuckled. “You like my filthy mouth.” 

“I kinda really do.” 

“You sure, Stiles?” 

He shut his eyes. “This is forever, right? Inevitable. And, don't laugh or anything, but I feel, you know, close to you right now. And horny. So, yeah.” 

“You know,” Derek said, amusement clear in his voice, “if someone had told me I'd be the sappy mate, I'd have died laughing.” 

“I suck, okay?” He groaned. “Just, make me yours. Better?” 

Laughing, Derek said, “I'm very fond of you, Stiles.” 

Heart hammering, Stiles whispered, “I'm very fond of you.” 

Nuzzling his way back to the nape of Stiles' neck, Derek pressed another kiss there. Then drew back and kissed down his spine. At the small of his back, he changed directions again and dragged his tongue upward, pausing periodically to lave circles around the hints of bone. Stiles' happy sigh tripped into a gasp when Derek's teeth pressed into his neck. A breath later, they were scraping over the skin atop his spine, moving downward—a torturous, glacial tease.

At the small of his back, Derek stopped to play. Little nibbles and long drags of his tongue. The press of his nose and the hot suction of his mouth. Stiles held his breath, feeling his hips press into the mattress and his thighs shift apart. 

When Derek's hands landed on the globes of his ass, he fought back an embarrassed giggle. Failed. Then the wet, wide press of Derek's tongue was sliding downward. He squirmed and gasped, more curious than alarmed until he realized Derek wasn't stopping. Until he felt heat and texture rub across his hole. 

Jumping, he grasped at the sheet, his eyes wide. “Wow. Okay. That's, yeah, I feel like, really, a little more build up was necessary before, you know, all that. If I was an anime chick, I'd be squirming away with a protested, 'that's dirty!' Which, yeah, I took a shower, but … oh. Ah … that actually feels....” 

Filthy hot. That's how the tease of Derek's tongue felt. Filthy fucking hot. When a small whine escaped his gaping lips, Derek's fingers tightened and his growl vibrated deep into Stiles' body. 

“Fuck.” He angled his ass higher, trying to give Derek better access. “Jesus. I'm actually a little afraid.” 

Derek whined and started to draw away. 

“No! Don't stop!” When the tip of Derek's tongue returned, his mate teasing it inside, Stiles embarrassed himself by whimpering. “You're going to shatter me. I'm going to come until I cry and swoon, and you'll be like, 'he's unconscious but I'm balls deep, and what's the, ah, fuck, yeah, socially acceptable course of action here?' Mmm hmm, that. More of that. Please.”

Derek licked him, long and hard, and pulled back. “I'll grind into your prostate until you wake up coming.” 

“Oh, well, yeah. As long as you have a plan.” 

“You, coming. Over and over.” Derek bit into the flesh of his ass. “That's my plan.” 

 

Stiles squirmed and nodded, his forehead scraping against the sheets. “Good plan. Brilliant plan.” 

Derek slid up his body and Stiles rose beneath him, desperate for the press of skin on skin. He wanted the weight and the heat, the slide of skin. Thrusting his hips against Stiles' ass, Derek reached higher and fished a bottle of lube out of the bedside table. Seeing it, Stiles moaned. 

“Oh, god.” 

“I'm gonna fuck you with my fingers. Spread you, nice and pretty, and fuck your prostate until you babble and beg for me. I'm gonna make you come on my fingers, cock untouched, and the scent of you is going to fill the room. Get into my nose and my head, and I'll be expecting it but when my dick twitches and my knot aches, I'll still be surprised. Can I have that, Stiles? Will you give it to me?” 

He went still and whined, managed a nod. Hoped Derek didn't expect words, because he felt broken and helpless. 

“You're my favorite scent. I haven't said that aloud yet, have I?” Stiles blinked as he heard the lube's cap click open and the slick rub of Derek's fingers. “When I say the right words, trip your need, and lust bursts from your pores. I try to hide the way I tremble. You can't see the way I ache.” 

“Please,” Stiles begged, mindless as his fingers spasmed around the sheets. 

“This?” Derek pressed a finger against him, circled his opening until he keened. “You want this, baby?” 

He arched into the touch in answer and felt the pressure of Derek's finger turn insistent. Stiles held his breath as it breached the ring of muscle, the stretch and burn making him imagine Derek's cock. Making his own cock ache. Derek pushed until the second knuckle popped inside, then began to rock and massage. 

Stiles' neck craned, baring it for his lover, though all he accomplished was the press of his adam's apple into the bed. When Derek withdrew the finger, each centimeter a divine torture, he gasped and whined. Fingertip still inside, Derek flicked the lube open and squeezed dollops onto the ring of Stiles' ass, still cold. A fine tremor shaking his body, Stiles clenched his teeth, feeling both incapable of speech and terrified of what might slither past his lips at the same time. 

Derek's finger plunged, withdrew. Plunged again. Rocked in circles until a second finger pressed against him. Stiles shook his head, though he didn't mean no. Didn't mean stop. He didn't know what he meant. Didn't know how he would survive this and emerge the same person. 

“Breathe, baby. Breathe for me.” Stiles gasped, deep and long, and the second finger edged in. “How you're going to take my knot. Christ, baby, you're gonna milk me so nice.” 

The stretch was severe. Worse when Derek's words made his cock twitch and his ass clench. He was trying to hold still. Really, he was, but his body seemed to have other plans. His muscles were seizing and trembling. He kept shuddering in a way he didn't understand, only knew it lengthened his spine and caused his ass to arch into the air. 

With both fingers seated to the second knuckle, Derek spread them slowly. 

He writhed, desperate for something he couldn't name. Whining, again and again, he managed a breathy, “Derek.” 

“You ready to feel good, Stiles? Not yet. Not just yet, baby. Let my fingers fuck you as long as you can, okay? Stay nice as loose around me and let my fingers slide deep. Then, when it's too much? When it's not enough, you beg 'pretty please.' You ask nice, okay? And I'll curve my fingers and show you the stars. You want that, Stiles? You want to keen and tremble and beg for me? Want to come apart on my fingers? Want to feel where my knot will lodge and rub, throbbing?”

A sound escaped him then, half laugh and half sob. He felt drunk, drugged. Craned his neck to bite into his own bicep. 

Derek's fingers spread, and again. The stretch was powerful, probably painful, but his body was too far gone for that. Nothing registered without the embrace of pleasure. When Derek's fingers withdrew, then plunged—again and again—he could only bite harder struggle to close his eyes as they rolled back. His legs flexed, trying to gain purchase. Trying to get his knees under him and his ass higher, more open. 

“Please,” he begged. 

Tsking, Derek spread his fingers wide. “So close, baby. Are you being good for me? Letting me stretch you nice and loose? Being good, but still need to beg? That's what you need, isn't it? Your neck bared, ass on display, begging for me to take you, to take care of you. That's what I want. Need to hold you down, keep you trembling in my bed, and see how many times you can come, how much of you I can swallow, until you orgasm dry and sobbing.” 

A blanket of white seemed to descend over his eyes, his body jerking once but otherwise frozen. Derek's fingers gave a vicious thrust and still he didn't move. Again and again, until all he felt was the throb of his pulse in his cock. 

“Now, Stiles. Ask now.” 

He blinked, but said nothing. 

Derek's other hand slapped his ass, hard. The pain startled a gasp from his lips, made me writhe. And then words were tumbling free. “Derek! Now, please. Pretty please. You have to. I need … I need you.” 

“Trust me, Stiles. I've got you.” 

His fingers curled, slid, and thrummed. Stiles had time for a confused frown to form, and then he was moaning. Humming in satisfaction, Derek circled and pressed, thrust against the spot again and again. Behind his clenched eyelids, Stiles saw stars. 

His orgasm, building forever, still managed to surprise him. One second he felt like time had no meaning. Like he would be stretched taut on Derek's fingers for the rest of his life, blissed out and desperate. The next, he was clawing at the sheets, the punch of pleasure making his vision whiten as he sobbed and spurted streams of come to the rhythm of his pounding heart. 

“God, Stiles. I need … get that ass in the air for me, sweetheart.” 

Trembling and limp, he pulled his knees under him and canted his hips up. Derek's hand slid along the crease of his thigh and up his belly, searching until his fingers found and smeared through Stiles' come, gathering it in his hand. Stiles let his head hang as he panted. 

“Nice and slippery. Lube and your come on my cock, going here.” Derek's palm slapped him, lighter this time, directly atop his stretched and aching hole. “Tell me you want it.” 

“Need you. Please.” 

He shouldn't have been shocked to feel the head of Derek's cock pressing into him, but he was. Time seemed to skip and glitch, disappear. The long tease had passed, and Derek was as anxious and hungry as he was—more. The cock head pressed and pressed, until it slid. Deeper and deeper, inch by inch. Stiles wanted to say something, do something, remember this moment perfectly. But it was already slipping away, his mind blurry and his body both absolutely overwhelmed and demanding. 

“You're mine,” Derek growled. 

“Yours.” Stiles nodded, kept nodding. “Yours.” 

“Lift your arms, baby. Press your palms against the headboard.” 

He struggled to obey, a broken sob escaping his lips. Turning to look back, he saw Derek for what felt like the first time in forever. His mate was damp with sweat, his beautiful muscles glistening. His eyes flashed red. Stiles felt his body go lax and struggled to keep his arms raised. He cooed and begged, “Derek.” 

He pulled out, one long inch at a time, until Stiles was growling, the sound a continuous rumble in his throat. A pause, and one of Derek's hands curling around his hip as the other landing at the small of his back. He thrust, hard and deep. Stiles rocked forward, his hips twitching between arching away and into the pressure. The long, teasing pull and hard, insistent, mind-numbing thrust. Again and again, until he was aching and hard, his body slick with sweat and trembling. 

Derek growled, and his next thrust startled a shout from Stiles. Bigger. The stretch and burn … he was getting bigger. Shaking his head hard, he whined. 

“Shh, baby. Not long now. Can't hold back. Trust me. You're going to … fuck, Stiles. Gonna fill you up. Don't be afraid. This is what you, what you, baby … you need this. My knot, stars, and when you clench around me, coming and crying and pliant,” his voice dropped to a deep gravel, “you'll take my fangs and come again, still, longer and harder than you could have dreamed.” 

“Yes,” he hissed, the sound drawing out until it was no longer a word. 

For all he yearned and begged, the next slow thrust stole his breath and made his heart stutter. So big. Overwhelmed, he let his arms drop and pressed his face into the bed. Tears wet his cheeks, sank into the sheets. Pain or pleasure or fear, he didn't know. As Derek's hands gripped his hips tight and Stiles' body yielded to the unrelenting thrusts, he didn't much care. 

“Ready?” Derek gritted out, a hand leaving Stiles' hip to soothe along the trembling line of his back. “Stiles, baby, green? I'm gonna … last chance.” 

He'd barely whispered, “Green,” when Derek hauled him off the bed. Back pressed to the slippery skin of Derek's chest, his squeak of surprise faltered into a moan as his weight forced Derek's cock deeper. Then Derek's hand circled his cock and Stiles was clawing at his mate's arms and rolling his hips. A lingering moment of intense, breath-stealing pressure—Derek demanding hand fracturing his awareness—and the knot popped inside. 

Derek's loud groan was eaten by Stiles' shriek.

“Fuck!” Stiles panted. “Oh my … Derek! Holy fucking god.” 

Derek kissed and bit behind his ear, growled when Stiles neck craned to the side. “Yeah.” 

Making small, sharp thrusts and rolling his hips, grinding his knot exactly where he said he would, Derek panted and groaned into Stiles' neck. As his hips lost their rhythm and the sounds changed to whimpers and whines, Stiles could do nothing but recline back against his chest, boneless and dazed. His entire existence circled between Derek's cock, his knot, and the oversensitive thrust of his own leaking cock. 

“Come on. Stiles, come on!” Derek's grip tightened, and Stiles whined and jerked. “Come for me. Now, Stiles. Come.” 

Surging upward with enough force to make Stiles bounce, to make him clutch tighter at Derek's arms even as stars exploded and Derek stripped his cock desperately, Stiles convulsed, screamed, and came. An instant later, Derek's hand jerked away from his cock as claws surged free. A frantic snarl his only warning, Stiles screamed before he registered the pain as the slide of Derek's fangs. Euphoria burst through him, caused his limp dick to jerk and leak another stream of come against his thigh. Breathing was all he could manage, and even that was a hardship. He barely noticed Derek's hips faltering into haphazard twitches or the spreading heat in his ass. Simply craned his neck as Derek's fangs buried deeper, a low growl echoing in his mate's throat. 

He closed his eyes. Just for a minute. Just until the world reformed. And remembered nothing else.


	5. Not An Indoor Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, everyone. Let me apologize in advance for the lack of sexy fun times. But, you know, plot and group bonding ... that's important, too. Right? :D

Stiles didn't drift into wakefulness. Simply blinked and his mind was off and running. The sun's glow was still shining in the east window. Still looked like a mid-morning glow. Derek was still sprawled atop him in bed, his weight more emotionally pleasing than comfortable. In point of fact, Stiles was a hot, sweaty mess. But who the hell cared? 

Because that? That was awesome. Sex. He'd had sex. And maybe he wasn't the best judge, but that must have been the best sex in the history of the world, right? It couldn't possibly get better than that. And, sure, his ass felt … well, it'd never felt like this before, but again, who the hell cared? Not him. That was for ding dong sure. 

Grinning, he found his body bouncing as excited energy coursed through him. He lasted another minute before nudging at Derek. 

“Derek? Derek.” 

Voice sleep-fuzzy but happy, he said, “You're awake.” 

“Yeah, ah, I took a nap.” Took a nap, passed out, whatever. “Didn't freak you out, did it?” 

“I was forewarned you might swoon, remember?” 

Stiles swallowed his huff of laughter and scoffed, “Shut up. I did not swoon.” 

“Of course not.” Stiles heard the smirk in his voice. “Didn't cry, either.” 

“Fine! I totally swooned and cried, okay? You're lucky I didn't levitate and start speaking in tongues. Because that? That was pretty much the best thing ever. Like, if we were homeless, sleeping on the forest floor and eating squirrels homeless, I'd get myself a hippie tunic and call it a day if you kept fucking me like that.”

Derek laughed, the vibrations shaking Stiles' body. “I think I can keep you sheltered and satisfied, Stiles.”

“Yeah, well. I'm just saying.” He reached above himself and patted in the general vicinity of Derek's shoulder. “Good job.” 

Derek chuckled, rolled onto his back, and laughed up at the ceiling. “Careful, baby. My wolf's already preening. Stroke my ego any harder and I'll be fangs and fur, howling my joy.” 

“Really? You know I've never seen....” His eyes grew large and he reached for his neck. The wound was already healing. “Oh my god, I'm a werewolf!” 

Derek hummed. “Soon enough.” 

He struggled into a sitting position and craned his head left and right. “I don't hear anything.” Taking a deep whiff, he picked up sweat and a certain amount of … let's call it musk, but nothing supernatural. “Can't smell anything either.” 

“It's only been a couple hours. Be patient.” 

“But I'll see characteristics before the full moon, right?” 

Derek snorted. “Definitely.” 

“Why'd you say it like that?” Stiles asked, side-eyeing him. 

“Well, first, let me just say—”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “You look way too amused.” 

“You're going to be a fantastic werewolf.” He grinned. “I stand by that.”

“You are! You're laughing at me!” 

“Stiles,” Derek laughed, “you're freshly mated, newly sexual awakened, and stubborn as hell. Add to that the frenzy of the full moon and instincts you have no hope of controlling? The next week is going to be hilarious.” 

He frowned. “But....” 

“But I'll help you through it, and you'll come out the other side just like the rest of us.” 

He rubbed at the bite mark. Felt his eyes roll back and his cock stir. Interesting. Shaking the sensations away, he took a deep breath. “All right, shut up. Can I see your wolf or not?” 

“Sure.” He took a deep breath and Stiles watched his teeth lengthen into fangs, his eyes turning red. “This is the quickest, smallest transformation. It gets my fangs out quick. It's good for biting people.” 

“Huh.” He leaned closer. Biting his lip, he tried to swallow the words, but had to ask, “Can I touch your fangs? Sorry. Is that rude?” 

Derek opened his mouth wider in invitation and Stiles poked at one. It didn't feel much different than a regular tooth, just longer and sharper. He nodded and pronounced, “Cool.” 

“We call this next one a beta form, mostly because a lot of betas have trouble with full transformations. As a mate, though, you should manage a wolf. You ready? It's a little less human.” 

Stiles grinned and nodded. “Hit me.” 

Derek's nose and cheeks became more pronounced, more ridged. Hair sprouted along his sideburns, until they became near mutton chops. Something weird happened to his forehead. As Stiles leaned forward, he asked, “Where did your eyebrows go?” 

Rolling his red eyes, Derek said, “Not the first time I've heard that.” 

“Sorry. You know, you kinda look like a vampire from Buffy. Like, check the bumpies, you know?” 

Derek lifted a hairless brow. “Not at all.” 

“Philistine.” 

They shared a grin. “This is the form you'll access most easily, especially at first.” 

“Okay. I can deal. Do you think I'll get nifty mutton chops?” 

Derek snorted. “I don't know. Are you capable of growing facial hair?” 

After pulling an unimpressed face, Stiles asked, “But you can go full wolf, right? Can I see? Am I allowed to pet you?” 

Derek nodded, but looked hesitant. “My wolf is hardest to control, especially lately.” 

“You're not going to hump my leg, are you?” At Derek's low growl, he grinned and said, “Sorry. I couldn't help myself.” 

“Try harder.” 

Holding up his hands in surrender, he said, “Whatever. It'll be cool. Your wolf loves me.” 

Stiles froze, only hearing the words after they'd left his mouth. The word they'd been trying so hard not to say, and he'd blurted it out as a joke. He grimaced and gave an apologetic shrug. 

Derek mirrored his shrug. “You're my mate.” 

“Okay.” He clapped his hands. “Let's see.” 

His body convulsed and there was a moment of awkward strain. An instant later, a big black wolf stood on the bed. Stiles peered closer, a considering crease forming between his brows. Like this, Derek looked wild—as if he needed a good brushing. Stiles suspected he'd get his fingers nipped if he approached the wolf with a brush, though—no matter how fond of him Derek was—so he banished the idea from his mind. 

“You look fierce,” Stiles whispered. 

Before he could blink, the wolf was in his space, whining as he butted his head against Stiles' chest. Chuckling, he buried his fingers in thick, coarse hair. The wolf butted at him again, forcing Stiles to his back. With a contented huff, the wolf plopped atop Stiles' chest and nosed beneath his jaw. When a long, slipper tongue lapped across his neck, Stiles squeaked and laughed. 

“You comfy?” he asked, tone playfully aggrieved. 

Another wolfy huff answered him and Stiles wrapped his arms around the … well, Derek. He knew it was Derek, but it felt a little off. Warm recognition spread in his chest, but the wolf seemed more instinctual. More animal. Not sure whether the wolf was controlling Derek or if his eyes were playing tricks on him, Stiles decided to ask Derek later and go with it for now. He had a feeling Derek would correct him, even in this skin, if his dignity was insulted. 

He conjured an insane image of himself holding a ball in front of Derek, asking, “You want the ball? Does Derek want the ball?” 

As he snickered, Derek nosed at his jaw again, clearly demanding more attention. Sliding his hands upward, Stiles sank his fingers into the scruff at Derek's neck and massaged the skin. Derek's head tilted and craned, directing his hands, and time seemed to fade away. He spent long, silent minutes stroking the wolf. 

After a full night's sleep and a nap atop it, he still felt his eyes growing heavy and sliding closed. His chest was warm and aching. Like when he held an adorable kitten too long and suddenly wanted to squeeze it until its adorable little eyes popped out … but in a loving way? 

Giving in, he wrapped his arms around Derek's furry body and squeezed. Not eye-popping hard, but hard enough. The wolf huffed again, sounding a little put out this time. But after the moment had stretched, he draped his muzzle over Stiles' shoulder and relaxed. 

Eventually, Stiles forced his arms to drop away and said, “You'd better come back now, before I fall asleep or die of happiness or whatever.” 

The wolf stretched, lapped at the bite on Stiles' neck, and wriggled off him as Stiles grinned. When Derek reappeared, he had a dopey, relaxed smile on his face and was lying atop Stiles' arm. 

“Hi,” Derek whispered, his voice rough. 

When Stiles' brows raised, surprised at the show of emotion, Derek leaned closer and kissed beneath his jaw. It made no sense, but Stiles' first thought was that Derek had just kissed wolf slobber. He didn't make it to a second thought, simply threaded his fingers through the silky strands of Derek's short hair and petted him. 

Stiles shuddered out a deep breath and fidgeted. “Okay. I'm seriously about to go into a fondness-induced coma. We have to get up.” 

Chuckling, Derek asked, “You really don't do romantic, do you?” 

He shrugged. “Don't have much practice. You can, you know, teach me?” 

“The blind leading the blind,” Derek muttered. 

“Then what are you bitching about?” Stiles grinned to take the sting out of his words and bounced his body. “Come on. Up we get.” 

Derek groaned, but hauled himself into a sitting position. “Up we get.” 

***

Several hours later, Stiles dragged his gaze back to the screen of his laptop with a growl. Derek had already patrolled the perimeter twice, had a long, muttering conversation with himself over the health and care of the plant he'd procured for Stiles, and done somewhere in the vicinity of a billion sit ups. Currently, he stood in a doorway, working on his millionth pull up. He'd done all this shirtless, so it wasn't all bad, but Stiles was trying to work, damn it! 

Derek, he'd decided, was not an indoor dog. He needed room to run. 

Completely headless of Stiles' irritation, he dropped to the ground and started doing push ups. The clapping kind. 

“Go outside and play!” Stiles barked. 

Derek sat back, blinking at him. “And play?” 

“Go outside and do whatever the fuck you want. Just get out of my hair.” 

Derek blinked again, his expression somewhere between bemused and aggrieved. 

Stiles shrugged. “No offense?” 

When the knock came, he was glad for the distraction. Aiming one last affronted scowl at him, Derek rose and answered it. Ethan took a quick step back, his head bowed and canted to the right. Erica and Isaac stood to either side of him. From their body language, he couldn't tell if the two wolves had dragged him there or were Ethan's protection. A mixture of both, probably. 

Before Derek could speak, Ethan blurted, “Sorry! I'm so sorry. Like I needed another reason to feel like shit. Not that I get a free pass, I know that.” 

With a sigh, Derek stood aside and said, “Come on in.” 

Ethan looked a little startled, as if the abrupt apology had been the extent of his plan, but dutifully slinked inside. After hitting save on his documents, Stiles shut the laptop and turned to give the newcomers his full attention. Erica met his gaze and smirked, her knowing expression making him squirm. 

“Okay.” Ethan took a deep breath. “You were an easy target, okay? It was easier to blame you than myself. I slept through his murder, somehow? I don't even remember him leaving. It's my fault. And your family, and Laura. Derek, it was super shitty and I don't even—”

“Enough.” Derek shook his head. “You need to be apologizing to Scott.” 

“I tried!” He fidgeted, looked at the couch but made no move to sit. “He's gone again. He keeps doing this!” 

Stiles perked up. “Again? Doing what?” 

“Scott's been running the perimeter of the preserve,” Isaac said. 

“Or something,” Ethan said. “We can never find him. I know he's trying to keep us safe, but it's frustrating. That's why I said all that shit. I'm sorry.”

Stiles frowned and met Derek's gaze. “Maybe you guys should go for a run. See if you can find him.” 

Because if he wasn't where he said he was, that was worth knowing. Derek nodded, apparently reading his thoughts. Then he looked between the wolves and frowned. 

“I'll stay,” Erica offering, shooting Stiles an evil grin. 

“Ah.” Stiles looked to Isaac, but forced his head to nod. “Awesome.” 

Erica's grin only widened, and then Derek was aiming a similar expression at him. Payback. For the 'go play' comment. He got it. He did. Derek would get his. 

A few minutes later, the wolves were filing out the door and Stiles was alone with Erica. He fidgeted and stared, at a loss. She stared back. 

“Derek probably likes you smelling like his jizz, but it's kinda skeeving me out. Go take a shower.” 

“I....” 

She flopped onto the couch and reached for a magazine that seemed to belong to the cabin. Over her shoulder, she pointed and said, “It's that way.”

Grunting, he stormed off and returned a few minutes later, his skin scrubbed red. She didn't look up from the magazine, so he cautiously joined her on the couch and asked, “Better?” 

She wrinkled her nose at him. “A little.” 

“Bitch, me and my soapy fingers just had a very awkward encounter for your benefit. Suck it up.” 

She looked up, a moment of awkwardness lingering, and then burst into laughter. “I like you.” 

Stiles grumbled, “You have a weird way of showing it.” 

Shrugging, she tossed the magazine aside and wriggled further upright, crossing her legs beneath her. “You excited or scared?” 

He ducked his head and grinned. “Excited.” 

“Has it kicked in yet?” 

“Nah. Still human.” He paused to listen, just in case, but heard nothing special. “How about you? Were you excited or scared?” 

“Relieved.” She flicked an imaginary fleck of nothing off her arm. “I got the bite right after werewolves went public. I had seizures, real bad. Now I'm a bad ass. Not a bad exchange.” 

“That's, wow. That's great.” 

Erica looked down, blinking hard. “Laura was amazing. You know she could have killed those fuckers, right? Could have ripped them to shreds. But everything was so tense and up in the air, then. Worse than it is now. She … she was a good alpha.” 

Stiles felt his eyes water in sympathy. Wondered if his emotions were out of whack or if his reaction was legitimate. He didn't know what to say. Enough words of sympathy had been aimed his way for him to know their poison. It was never all right and he was never thankful. He said, “That's awful.” 

“I wish she'd killed them.” She shrugged. “I'd make a shitty alpha.” 

Unsure what he was meant to say, Stiles shrugged. As the silence lingered, his thoughts ran away from him until he was announcing, “Derek's a good alpha, I think.” 

Erica laughed. “You've got it bad, huh?” 

“No!” He bit his lip. “I don't know. I'm happy.” 

“Yeah,” she drawled. “Everyone heard how happy Derek makes you. Twice, right?”

Mouth gaping, he felt his face heat and covered it with his palm. “Awesome.” 

“Don't worry. You're not half as loud as Lydia and Jackson. Dick gets his rocks off putting on a show, I swear.”

Not assured in the least, Stiles distracted himself by asking, “What are they like? Lydia and Jackson?” 

“Why? Want to update your files?” She jerked her head toward his computer. 

“What? I—”

“Lie!” She grinned at him, her expression once again evil. “Pray tell, Stiles, what do you do?” 

Stiles hesitated, felt himself gulp, and cursed himself for the tell. Staring her down, as if eye contact alone might convince her of his truthfulness—all his training assuring him otherwise—he opened his mouth. 

“Lie! Care to try again?” 

“I work for the FBI,” he blurted. 

She nodded, but widened her eyes in mock curiosity and asked, “Doing what?”

He took a deep breath, thought back to his training and said, “I—”

Erica sing-songed, “You are a liar.” Laughing, she added, “Honestly, you're not very good.” 

“I help solve crimes,” he muttered. 

“At the FBI? No shit.” She licked her lips and leaned closer. “Tell me.” 

“I … can't.” Looking around the room desperately, he asked, “Are you hungry? Why don't I make dinner. Or cookies? Do you like cookies?” 

“Why don't I tell the entire pack what a lying liar you are? Then you can have this conversation with everyone. Won't that be fun?” Stiles tried to stare her down, but she only grinned back at him before saying, “I'm waiting.” 

“I wish Derek was here,” he whined. 

“I know, darling, but he's not. So out with it.” 

Stiles lifted his chin and said, “I'm an analyst.” 

“I'm starting to get cranky.” 

“Christ! I'm a behavioral analyst, okay? A profiler.” He grimaced as soon as the words left his mouth, but grumbled, “And I'm telling Derek about this conversation, so if something happens to me, you're dead.” 

Erica's brow furrowed. “That's not a weird coincidence, is it? You being a profiler?”

Glancing at the walls, Stiles groaned. Good thing he'd already mated with his partner and became a werewolf. Otherwise, he might feel obliged to be truthful with his handler and the case would be blown. Good thing he didn't have any professional integrity or care about keeping his job. Defeated, he whispered, “Someone could hear.” 

“Not unless you're screaming Derek's name. These cabins are sound proof, or sound proof for humans.”

Instead of feeling relieved, Stiles scowled. How didn't he know that? As his mind set to work realigning his theories and thoughts, he said, “Wait. Isn't that dangerous? How can you know who's coming and going?” 

“Okay, Peter.” She laughed. “We can hear a little, more if we focus. But, yeah, it's stupid. When Derek signed over Laura's life insurance, Scott thought it'd be a nice surprise for the pack. We went away for a full moon run and came home to find the place reeking of strangers and way less secure. Peter threw a chair through his window. Refused to fix it for a year and a half.” 

Stiles couldn't help but shrug. “He's not wrong.” 

Grinning, Erica nodded toward the living room window. “That was open when I got here.” 

It was closed now, though. She'd closed it while he was in the shower … where she'd sent him. “You planned this interrogation.” 

“Duh.” She twined her fingers together, cracked them, then steepled them beneath her chin. “Spill.” 

Erica wasn't the killer. He was like 99 percent sure. It wasn't that she wasn't capable of murder. Just the opposite. The murders seemed politically motivated, or at least working toward some end-game he hadn't discovered yet. Everything about Erica was blunt and forceful, even if laced with her sly smirk. If she wanted someone dead, Stiles imagined they'd be dead. No elaborate tableau. No sadistic torture. Just good and dead and buried in an unmarked grave. Plus, Derek trusted her. 

“Okay,” he relented. “But this stays between us. Our secret, okay?” 

“You want a pinkie promise?” 

“You're such a dick.” Despite his snort, he found himself excited to confide in her. “Okay, this all started as a case. I'm undercover as Derek's mate.” 

Erica huffed. “Deep, deep cover.” 

“Right?” He grinned even as he shook his head. “I guess they figured, if the scent was wrong, Derek wouldn't be able to pretend. So they swabbed the eligible agents and sent samples to him.” 

“Wait.” Erica threw her head back, cackling. “So, wait, let me get this right. You're all like, 'oh gee golly, this is my lucky day!' And Derek just sat back and waited for his mail-order mate to arrive?” 

“Damn. 'Oh gee golly' is a direct quote. How did you know?” 

“But basically?” Her pink tongue peaked out as she tittered. 

Scratching the back of his head, Stiles admitted, “Basically.” 

“That's fantastic. Also, you wanting to shoot him makes a lot more sense.”

“And now I'm mated and a werewolf. It's been a busy week.” Sobering a little, he shrugged and added, “Additionally, I might get fired.” 

“Are you kidding? With the affirmative action going on?” She waved a hand at him. “They'll put your picture on a brochure. The caption will read, 'More than a pretty nose: werewolf, Stiles Stilinski.'”

“More like, 'A lying liars who lies: werewolf, Stiles Stilinski.” 

“You haven't told them?” she asked, looking concerned for the first time. 

A rush of white noise invaded his head at the thought, making him fidget in a desperate attempt to silence it. “So, about those cookies?” 

“Stiles! Don't you have, like, a handler or something? Aren't you supposed to be checking in?” 

“I am,” he agreed. “But I'm not, instead.” 

“Remember that time you screamed, 'I'm a genius!' That was the fever talking, right?” 

“Look! If I report this, they'll yank me off the case and call me in for debrief. And then, bam! It's reality time. Do I leave Derek? Do I quit my job? What's my future hold? Where do I live? I'm too pale to live in Brazil, okay? And my apartment is in the city. Derek is not an indoor dog!”

“Okay, first off, let's table that analogy, like forever. But seriously, Stiles, you're completely underestimating the shit-storm of bureaucracy you've stumbled into, okay? By the time they get done having meetings and consulting their lawyers and PR people, the case will be solved. Right now, you need to cover your ass and check in.” 

“I don't wanna!” He buried his head in his hands, but after a few deep sighs said, “Yeah, okay. I will.” 

Erica lifted an eyebrow. “Did I, or did I not, say 'right now?'” 

“Not … fine.” 

***

The phone call hadn't taken long. Honestly, there had been a lot of dead air and Stiles being asked to repeat himself. After an awkward “okay....” he'd been ordered to keep in better contact and then the call had ended. Stiles knew nothing had been settled, but it seemed Erica was right—this situation wasn't in the handbook. 

After that, he'd used up the last of the freezer's meager supplies to make a big pan of chicken continental—Chinese in the sense that it contained soy sauce, and one of his dad's signature dishes. As he'd puttered over the pan, Stiles had realized he didn't know if Derek liked green beans, mushrooms, rice, chicken, or soy sauce. But he'd offered Stiles a South American rodent, so … his tastes couldn't be that finicky, right? 

He and Erica were officially friends. He knew this because she'd been bitching about Boyd's refusal to fuck her in their wolf forms for a solid twenty minutes. The first ten minutes or so had been genuine, he'd guess. Now, she was torturing him. Because, okay, he'd watched the odd tentacle porn, but he'd been a virgin this morning and he wasn't werewolf enough for bestiality to seem okay. Not judging, but … yeah. 

A knock sounded and Stiles darted toward the door with a muttered, “Thank Jesus.” 

Erica managed to beat him there, somehow, and yanked the door open with a scowl. “Peter, you know Derek isn't here.” 

Peter smiled, all charm and unconcerned politeness. “Good thing I'm here to talk to Stiles, then, isn't it?”

Erica repeated, slower, “Derek is not here.” 

“On a short leash, already?” Peter looked over Erica's head to meet Stiles' gaze. “Best to put your foot down early, son.” 

Stiles snorted, but said, “Let him in.” 

“Stiles....” 

“Leave the door open. It's fine.” 

Peter strode inside, his expression satisfied even as he groused, “I resent these groundless implications. Sure, I was flattered at first, but the novelty has worn thin. I am innocent.” 

“Innocent of the murder, perhaps. But a propensity toward innocence would be a difficult claim to substantiate, I believe.” Stiles heard the words too late. Peter's demeanor and erudite language had triggered a flashback. Back to term papers and resentful professors eager to find him lacking. Grimacing, he tacked on a half-hearted, “Dude.”

Peter preened. Laughed. “Indeed. I see you are not without skills.” He let the words settle, his expression … a generous person might call it teasing, but Stiles saw manipulation and mockery. At length, he added, “Something smells good.” 

Stiles sniffed. All at once, the scents slammed into him, overwhelming his ability to process. He smelled every ingredient more intensely than if he'd been holding them beneath his nose. And more. So much more. He smelled the bloody, sickly scent of the chicken package in the garbage. Smelled sour milk clinging to the carton he'd thrown away this morning. The rot of their french toast. Dust. The plant's dirt and odd, toxic scent. Erica's perfume was subtle—too subtle for him to have picked up on before now—but obvious. Peter … Peter smelled like nothing. The bedroom, though, was aromatic. Pungent. His cock gave a gentle twitch and he suddenly realized he could smell himself. Erica hadn't been fucking with him. Derek's scent still clung to him, along with fresh sweat and a weird, bitter tang he couldn't identify. 

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly uncomfortable. The scent only intensified. 

“Look,” Erica cooed. “Our little mate is becoming a wolf.” 

“Shut up,” he grumbled. 

“It's a survival instinct,” Peter said, the satisfaction falling from his face. “Do I really make you that nervous?” 

Instead of answering, Stiles asked, “Why don't you have a scent?” 

“It's a skill I've acquired.” 

“I want you to drop it,” Stiles said. “You're innocent, right? I want you to prove it.” 

Satisfaction surged through him. This. This was a new idea. An idea he never would have had. An idea allowed to him because of Derek. 

“I....” Peter shuffled his feet as Stiles grinned. Notching his chin into the air, Peter announced, “I haven't showered.” 

“Good. I want you to stop.” 

“Stop showering?” Peter waved him away. “You've had a heightened sense of smell for a single minute. You don't know what you're asking.” 

“I do.” Stiles lifted a challenging brow. “Stop showering. You might stink us out, but if another murder occurs and you don't smell like blood and fear, I might believe you. Now drop the mask, or whatever it is.” 

“You are not without skills,” Peter repeated, and suddenly stank. 

He'd masturbated. Recently. It was … not good. Not good at all. Stiles kinda wanted to recant his statement and allow Peter a single shower before he, hopefully, adopted a chaste lifestyle. He also felt pretty embarrassed about parading around in front of Erica … and Ethan, and Isaac, with traces of Derek's spunk up his ass. Awkward. 

Erica, though, didn't react to Peter's scent. Apparently, this was just one of the many benefits of being a werewolf. He imagined supermarkets. Concerts … and the super hearing hadn't even kicked in yet. Fairs. Work. His dad.... Fantastic. 

“Well,” Stiles said, his tone extra bright. “I don't smell blood.” 

“Naturally.” 

“You know, if you'll excuse my saying—”

“Rarely an auspicious beginning,” Peter muttered. 

“If you'd knock off the attitude, you wouldn't make such an obvious suspect.” 

Peter shrugged and paced closer to the window. For all his chin was still in the air, his discomfort was obvious. “As I said, the accusations weren't so tedious, initially.” 

“The accusation of sadistic torture and murder didn't bother you?” Stiles asked. 

“People thinking I'd avenge Laura's death? That's not an accusation. That's a compliment.” His shoulders drooped. “But Aiden? I wouldn't do that.” 

Stiles nodded. “We'll see.” 

“Yes. You will.” Peter smirked. “You'll smell my innocence a mile away.” 

Smiling despite himself, Stiles looked around the room for some distraction. He settled on, “You want some dinner?” 

Peter inclined his head, his smile almost shy. “If there's enough.” 

“There's plenty.” 

***


	6. Snickerdoodle Cake

Shortly after Peter left, Erica jumped to her feet and jogged into the kitchen. Stiles watched with a bemused expression as she hurriedly dumped half the pan of chicken continental into a large bowl. Despite the oddity of her behavior, he couldn't help the sparkle of satisfaction he felt at her fierce grip on the bowl. 

“Hungry?” he asked. 

“They're back. Quick, open the window.” 

He moved to the window reflexively, but paused. This seemed sneaky. And, yeah, he was undercover, but lying to Derek wasn't part of the deal. Erica growled lowly and he shoved it open—again. The window had been getting quite the work out. Erica had closed it while he was in the shower, opened it again after the call to his handler, then closed it after Peter left so she could grill him for damning evidence against the wolf. As Stiles lifted it open a final time and dove for the couch, he vowed to tell Derek everything. 

He'd barely bounced to a settle on the couch when the door open. Erica brushed by Derek, spread her arms wide, and dragged Ethan and Isaac away with her. 

“Hey, Derek. Bye, Derek. Say goodbye to Stiles, everyone.” As their confused voices reached him, Erica shouted, “Later, man!”

Derek shut the door with a sigh and turned to him. “What'd she break?” 

“Nothing?” He watched Derek lift his head and scent the air, then wander toward the kitchen. “I don't even know.” 

Standing, he followed Derek into the small kitchen. “Did you find Scott?” 

“Couldn't even find a fresh scent. Something's off there.” 

Derek looked tired, a little numb, and a lot sweaty. He finished filling the first bowl and held it out for Stiles. The movement of his body stirred the air, sending it at Stiles in a little rush. Hand extended for the bowl, he froze. 

Even after taking out the garbage, the scents had been overwhelming. So, he'd been doing his best to breath through his mouth. Now, though, he took a sniff, trying to be subtle as Derek occupied himself filling the second bowl. 

And good fucking God, what was that? Derek smelled sweet and earthy, edible and dangerous. Like wet grass and ozone after a lightning storm, with twinges of vanilla and cinnamon. He felt his mouth gape and water, felt his heart trip into a wild drumbeat. 

“Stiles?” 

He blinked up at Derek, his mate watching him with flashing red eyes. 

“Nothing!” 

Grabbing the bowl, he made a break for the couch, stumbling over his feet in the process. Folded into the corner of the couch with a throw pillow clutched to his lap defensively, he shoveled a forkful into his mouth. He was on his third mechanical bite before he realized it tasted like ash in his mouth. 

A moment later, Derek sat in a way that didn't resemble a crackhead—and good for him; he must be so proud. He offered Stiles a curious frown, but Stiles' over-bright smile was enough to refocus his attention on the meal. After several big bites, Derek sighed, his body seeming to shimmy loose. 

“I needed this.” He took another bite and mumbled around the food, “Good, too.” 

“Good. Good.” Stiles nodded, too frazzled to mock Derek for talking with his mouth full. “I'm … glad. Glad, it's good.” 

Stiles heard hysterical laughter. Realized stupid late it was coming from him. Tapering off with a manic little giggle, he grinned at Derek's raised brows and barely managed to spread his lips wide enough to welcome the fork full of distraction he'd reached for. 

“It's good,” he agreed. 

Derek was staring at him over the bowl, his fork hovering in mid-air. His mouth worked for several seconds before he shrugged and announced, “I'm going to finish eating.” 

“You should.” Stiles nodded, hard, and for too long. “It's good.” 

It wasn't. Not even a little. Every bite muddied the scent of Derek. He threatened and fought himself to swallow rather than throw the bowl across the room. His mind felt fuzzy and distant, two distinct urges overriding rational thought: he wanted, desperately, to crawl into Derek's lap and press his nose to that skin—kinda wanted to bite and lick and eat him—but also wanted to sprint outside and get a lungful of air he could breathe. This air wasn't air. Wasn't working like air anymore. This air was food. 

Derek set his bowl on the coffee table with a clunk, but nodded Stiles back to his meal. “Finish eating.” 

He tried to pretend his chest wasn't heaving. Tried to pretend stars weren't dancing behind his eyes. Nodding, he muttered, “It's good,” and tried to pretend the sob didn't come from his mouth. 

Derek's eyes flashed, but he only said, “I'm going to wash up.” 

“No!” The scent! What if … he couldn't.... “I mean, yeah, okay.” 

“I'll be right back.” Derek circled the side of the couch closest to himself, giving Stiles a wide berth. “Eat, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded, mouthed, “It's good,” but managed to swallow the sound. As Derek's back retreated and then disappeared, he didn't feel saner. Instead, a strange, frenzied sadness set him to trembling. But it was important that he eat. Not to him. Stiles didn't give a fuck. But eating was important to Derek and eating would bring Derek back to him, and that was important to Stiles. Vital, actually. 

So, he choked down mouthful after mouthful as quickly as he could, slammed the bowl to the coffee table so Derek could for sure hear, and then washed the taste away with big gulps of water. 

The minute his mouth was empty, he yelled, “Done!” 

Waiting for Derek to return was torture. Like waiting for the microwave to beep when you were already drunk and swaying. But then Derek was there, sitting … as far from him as possible, cross-legged and facing Stiles. The barrier between them was real and imagined and Stiles found his lips pulling into a pout. Worse, his scent was diluted. Still broken-glass sharp, but it had to be fought for. 

“Let's talk,” Derek said. 

“Why?” Stiles asked, subconsciously licking his lips. 

“You have to settle into this, Stiles. It isn't lust that can be sated. The only thing I can do is distract you.” 

Suspecting his secret was out, Stiles leaned forward and whispered, “I can smell you.” 

“I know, baby. Let's talk.” 

Stiles nodded, licked his lips again, and confided, “You smell like sex and cake.” 

Derek smiled. “What kind of cake?” 

“Snickerdoodle,” he answered at once, pleased Derek had asked. “Vanilla and cinnamon. It's my favorite. You're my favorite.” 

Derek hummed and reached forward, as if he meant to touch, but let his hand drop. “So, Peter was here. Why?” 

“Peter doesn't smell. And wolves can't hear. Not, ah, in the cabins.” He blinked, trying to focus. “You didn't tell me.” 

“I can definitely smell Peter.”

“I told him!” Stiles angled his chin higher, proud. “We'll smell his innocence a mile away. Or, you know, blood and fear. He's going to stink for his innocence. It was my idea.” 

“It was a good idea.” 

Derek smiled and Stiles growled. His mate smelled better now, stronger. Did smiles smell like that? Stiles found himself swaying forward, his mouth watering. 

“Sorry,” Derek said quickly. “So, can you hear, too? Or just smell?” 

“Smell.” Stiles took several deep breaths and grinned. “Why didn't Peter? How?” 

“I taught him.” Derek grimaced and Stiles rocked back, scrunching his nose at the strange addition to Derek's scent. 

“What's that?” 

“Embarrassment, maybe. A little fear and guilt.” Derek sighed. “I was taught to mask my scent, for work. Peter's my only family, and yeah, he's a little off, but, I showed him how. I wanted him to be safe.” 

“Just like the crime scene.” Stiles fought hard to summon a scowl. “You didn't say.” 

“Not just like the crime scene. Peter's scent is masked, but he still has one.” 

“I didn't smell him.” 

Derek chuckled and scent exploded. Whimpering and wiggling, Stiles pressed his cheek to the back of the couch. “Sorry! Christ. You're brand new, Stiles. Trust me, he has a scent. You can't smell him, but you can still smell his clothes and any scents that have leaked into them. The mask is also localized to his body. The crime scene is like a bomb of nothing covered in peppermint. It's totally different.” 

“Oh.” Stiles stared at him hard and finally allowed himself to ask, “Can I lick you?” 

“That's not a good idea.” 

“It is. It's good.” He reached forward. “It's the best idea.” 

Derek closed his eyes. They were red when he opened them. Staring hard, he said, “No, Stiles.” 

“But—”

“No!” 

Before whatever traces of logical thought left to him could register, his neck was bared. Then he was going limp, Derek's scent exploding around him and turning into a velvety embrace. “Fuck. That's good. Really is. Not lying.” 

“Shit!” Derek bared his fangs. “Don't do that again.” 

“This?” Stiles craned his neck to the side, showing Derek the bite he'd left there. “You like this too much, huh?” 

“You understand that I'm trying to help you, right? If I could fuck this better, you'd be on your back.” 

For all his words were a rebuke, his scent thickened and took on an earthier quality. Stiles felt like he could swim through it. 

His cackle near silent behind closed, mischievously-quirked lips, Stiles felt the devious squint of his eyes. Even as a growl echoed in Derek's throat, Stiles ran a finger along the line of his throat. Up and down. Up and down. He curled his fingers into human claws and dragged his fingernails down the tender skin, each touch to Derek's bite making his body throb and thrum. 

Derek gaped, squirmed, and exhaled a shuddering breath. Even as a fierce, earthy scent—one Stiles was coming to recognize as lust—sent him rocking back, Derek was laughing. 

“You should see yourself. You just turned into a Disney villain.” 

Stiles narrowed his eyes. With the greatest of intent, he licked his lips and basked in the addictive rush of scent. Lifting a finger to his mouth, he licked the tip. Keeping Derek pinned beneath his gaze, he slide the finger into his mouth and curled his tongue around it. Tightening his lips around the digit, he sucked until his cheeks hallowed and then pulled the finger free. The obscene popping sound was the cherry atop his seduction sundae. 

He could barely breathe, but he wasn't trying very hard. His entire awareness was focused on his rock hard cock. Glancing at Derek's lap, he narrowed his eyes again. What would Derek smell like hard? What if he could tease some precome from the tip? 

“If I got naked, would you cover me in your come?” 

Yes! Stiles moaned loudly, his hips jutting as he sought friction. Derek was leaning forward, as if he could hide his erection. He couldn't. Not at all. 

“You know how I said this would be hilarious?” Derek whispered. “I was wrong.” 

“Your knot. Derek, if we triggered it, would you come a lot? You do, right? Could you, would you, rub it into my skin? So I smell like you always?” 

“Stiles, no!” Derek gulped, rubbed a hand over his face. “Look, I smell you, too. Okay? I should leave.” 

He made no move to stand and Stiles grinned, feeling the Disney villain expression settle over his features a second time. Mwah ha ha. 

He shook his head, trying to cultivate some semblance of innocence when all he felt was predatory. Blinking wide, hopefully-innocent eyes, he announced, “You could make me come. Just like this. Don't even have to touch me. You'll be good. No touching. Just this. Just make yourself feel good and let me smell it.” 

“Stiles.” He groaned, fidgeted. “That's not the point.” 

“I need you, Derek. Please. Mate. Please.” He thrust his neck to the side and whined. “I hurt.” 

“You're fucking evil! That's what you are!” Derek stood and paced before him, a side-eyed glare meeting Stiles' quickly-banked features again and again. “Don't think you're manipulating me.” 

“I want to lick the tip of your cock.” He blinked up at Derek. “Is that manipulation?” 

Derek stalled in his pacing. “I … you're confusing the hell out of me.” 

“Want to confuse the come out of you.” Stiles felt all pretense leave him with the throb of his needy cock. “Want to eat you, Derek. Air breathes like food. Give me something to eat. To swallow.” 

Derek snorted, his eyes rolling back. “Thought,” he cleared his throat, “I thought you wanted me to rub it into your skin?” 

“Half,” Stiles proclaimed with a very serious nod. “Your knot. I'll swallow until I can't. Whatever runs down my chin. The rest, on my neck and chest. Put some on my cock. Rub that in.” 

“I am the alpha,” Derek announced, squaring his shoulders. “I have to take care of you.” 

Stiles nodded in complete agreement. “Take care of me, alpha. Please.” 

“I shouldn't!” He ground the heel of his palm into his dick, trying to force it into obedience. Stiles felt the wave of lust like heat from a fire. “I'm going to fuck this up.” 

 

Stiles sighed and reached for the hem of his shirt. Pulled it off. Arching his back, because he needed to, because Derek's eyes widened at the lithe lines of his body, Stiles reached for the button of his pants and announced, “I'm getting naked.” 

“Stiles.” Derek groaned. 

“I told you!” Stiles aimed a shaking finger at him and demanded, “You listen to me! I want to smell you come. Want to smell like yours. It's not fucking hard!” 

Eyes flashing, Derek growled. “Rethink your tone, Stiles.” 

“Make me!” Stiles bared his own teeth. “Make me choke on your come. If you dare. If you can. You can't. I dare you. Please.” 

Stiles shoved his pants down and plopped onto the couch, leaving the material to tangle around his ankles. Rubbing his fingertips across the crown of his cock, he pulled them back moist and lifted them to his nose. After a cursory sniff, he held them out to Derek and asked, “Does it smell the same? The same as I smell when I come, satisfied and happy? Does this smell like want, Derek? It should.” 

“Fuck!” Derek's fangs slicked free for an instant, his murderous gaze pinning Stiles. “You're being a bad wolf. I mean that, Stiles. You will be punished for this. You will learn to obey me. Because it might save your fucking life someday!” 

Stiles scented Derek's wolf as it clawed to the surface. Felt his cock jerk and leak. It was better, even better. Like singed earth and endless power. His neck slipped to the side and he whispered, “Tomorrow?” 

Derek's teeth snapped together. His shoulders hunched, but he parted his lips and growled, “Tomorrow.” 

Stiles whined and cooed. “Tonight?” 

“Tonight, god help me, I'm going to give you what you want.” He snarled at Stiles' ecstatic, eager expression. “And when you pass out, which you will, I'll cover you with my body and hope you've regained your fucking mind by morning.” 

Sighing happily, Stiles preened and then announced, “You're my favorite.” 

“You won't be saying that tomorrow.” 

“Will. Tomorrow and forever.” He snuggled the side of his face into the back of the couch, at peace. “My favorite.” 

“It's my job to be strong for you, Stiles. Not give you everything you want.” He snorted. “I should be spanking that ass.” 

Stiles shifted on the couch and grinned up at him happily. “Yeah.” 

Derek's voice dropped an octave, the groan evident as he asked, “You like the sound of that?” 

He blinked up at Derek, exhausted and impatient at the same time. The scents were laying heavy atop him, like a blanket. He needed relief and he needed oblivion. The world was too bright. The air too thick to breathe. Shutting his eyes, he muttered, “Dunno. I pinch my nipples, sometimes. Squeeze my balls … before I come. Do it. Spanking, see if, see if it makes me smell good.”

“Not as a punishment. Punishments don't make you smell good, Stiles.” He took a deep breath and declared, “You will be punished.” 

Arching his back, all the fight gone out of him, Stiles begged, “Derek.” 

Though his teeth clenched, Derek pulled off his shirt. The baring of his skin enhanced his scent a hundred fold. He was beautiful, his scent gorgeous. Better than anything Stiles could have hoped for. Better than anything he deserved. 

“Can't believe you're mine,” he whispered. 

Derek hummed, the sound vibrating like a purr. “Yours.” 

Stiles arched his hips, started to reach for his cock but gripped his thigh instead. “Mine.” 

Derek pulled his jeans down his thighs, slow inch by inch, until muscles and skin and the proud, intimidating jut of his cock stood free. Stiles' head fell back, his neck bared and his sight focused on the ceiling for long, overwhelmed seconds. The smell....

“Always wanna be a werewolf,” Stiles said. 

Derek laughed. “That's good, baby.” 

“Would you just … give me your fingers. Make them wet. Please.” 

He watched as Derek gripped his cock and gave it a slow pull. Then another. Smearing his fingers across the tip, he took a step forward and held them out to Stiles. 

“This what you want?” 

Stiles reached forward. “Please.” 

Derek nodded toward the floor at his feet. “On your knees.” 

Whimpering, Stiles kicked frantically at his jeans, ignoring Derek's chuckles, until he was free. He slid from the couch and onto his knees, struggling to keep himself upright when every instinct and sensation demanded he collapse to his belly. Rocking back so the couch propped him up, he smiled at Derek, proud. 

“You're fucking wrecked,” Derek breathed, sounding awed. 

Stiles nodded hard. “For you.” 

The instant Derek offered his hand, Stiles gripped his wrist and dragged him closer. He brought Derek's fingers to his nose and sniffed deeply. His belly and balls clenched, his dick twitching. Carefully, so very carefully, he touched the moist tips to his nose. Humming evilly, his body stretched and arched. It was his now. His forever. He'd stolen it. Greedily, he closed his lips around the rest, anchoring the scent in his mouth, like the food it was. 

He sucked and sucked, laved his tongue over the scent until it was gone, and then whined for more. 

“Let go, baby.” Derek pulled his fingers free. “Lick me. Get me nice and slippery, Stiles.” 

Nodding manically, Stiles licked every inch of Derek's palm and fingers. Left his scent all over Derek and moaned brokenly at the smell of them combined. 

“We smell perfect,” he whined, a sob hidden in the words. 

Derek ran his free hand through Stiles' hair, petting him. “Wait until you smell my come on your skin.” 

Stiles butted his face upward, against nothing, and whimpered. “Derek. Need.” 

Humming, Derek closed his slippery hand around his cock. He started stroking, his movements long and hard. He twisted his hand around the ridge on each up stroke. Occasionally hovered at the tip, rolling the leaking slit across his wrist. 

“This?” Derek asked. “Is this what you need? To smell me flare hot and hungry?” 

Stiles whined. “You're gonna, you'll let me swallow you. Right?” 

Derek gave a short thrust of his hips, his cock jerking closer. Leaning forward, single minded with want, Stiles parted his lips. Whined when Derek rock back, away from him. 

“I'll come in your mouth, baby.” 

“Promise?” Stiles demanded. 

“You never need to ask me that.” Derek dragged his palm across the leaking tip and pressed it to Stiles mouth, groaning as Stiles licked and scraped his teeth over the skin. “Every word I say to you is a promise. Forever, Stiles. Always.” 

“Always.” Stiles felt tears brim and had just enough presence of mind to know his helplessness. “Can I, Derek, please. Will you, just ... I want my nose pressed to your thigh. Please. I'm sorry. Don't laugh at me. Just let me. Please.” 

“Stiles, sweetheart, I won't laugh.” 

He took a step forward and then another, until Stiles forehead was pressed to his hip. Curving his back, Stiles nosed down until his face was pressed into the crease of Derek's thigh. The smell was amazing, overwhelming. Derek's balls rubbed against his forehead, against the strands of his hair. Maybe it should have felt absurd. Awkward or weird. Instead, Stiles cock jerked and ached, his own balls pulling taut. He opened his mouth, kissing and nibbled on what was offered him. 

“Whatever you want,” Derek swore, his breathing becoming labored and shallow. “Anything, Stiles. I can't deny you. Not even when I should.” 

Stiles whined and wrapped long arms around Derek's thigh. He whispered, “In my mouth.” 

“I know, baby.” Running his fingers through Stiles' hair, Derek soothed, “I know.” 

Stiles nuzzled at his thigh, lifted his head to lap at Derek's balls. Suddenly trembling and arching, he panted, “My favorite.” 

When Derek's groan turned to a growl, Stiles clung to his thigh, boneless. Derek said, “Made me knot, baby. Fuck, it aches. Touch it. Please. Stiles, I need you too, baby. Need you so bad. Just for you, mate.” 

For a long moment, all Stiles could do was writhe, searching for sensation as his ass clenched and throbbed. Strange. The burn of his prostrate when it'd gone completely untouched—strange. Then Derek whined, and his hands were groping higher, searching for his cock. Closing a hand around him, Stiles felt his eyes widened at the size of the knot and added a second hand. One day, one day he'd see. For now, the electric ozone burn in his nose was enough to make him moan and whimper. So good. So unbelievably perfect. 

The knot throbbed in his hand, making his ass clench in want, and he pressed his nose back into the crease of Derek's thigh, breathing him in with great greedy gulps. His balls were drawing up, his cock leaking a steady stream of precome down his untouched length. His fingers tightened around Derek's knot, drawing a ragged groan from his mate. 

“Now. Stiles, now. Get your mouth on my cock.” 

He jerked, the world flashing white for a single instant as his own orgasm threatened, but he pushed it back. Barely maintaining enough strength to struggle upright, Stiles got a fleeting view of Derek's flushed and straining cock. Then his lips were parted wide, and the flared tip was pressed to his tongue. He groaned and shuddered, the taste and smell robbing him of breath and sanity. 

Whining around Derek's cock, desperate for his come, he felt Derek grip the back of his head. Felt his mouth being pressed deeper along the length. His body twisted, allowing him to bare his neck and keep his mouth exactly where he wanted it. 

“So perfect,” Derek whispered. “Bad wolf. Mine.” 

Stiles moaned his agreement, tightening his grip in a silent demand. Giving a final jerk of his hips, Derek snarled and his cock pulsed. Come hit the back of his throat, somehow taste and scent at once, and Stiles' eyes rolled back. His own body shook as he felt Derek straining beneath his hands and mouth, his moan loud on the air when Stiles tried to swallow around him. He got down a mouthful. Two. Felt his mouth water at the taste. Felt his mind and body stricken silent and still at the boom of scent. 

Then Derek was jerking his head back by his hair and Stiles was gasping for air, come sliding from his mouth and down his chin. Streams hit his neck and chest. He blinked and Derek was on his knees before him, Stiles' tight, desperate grip around his knot remaining firm despite the movement. A rope of come hit his belly and he whimpered, his own cock pulsing and eager. 

Derek's strong hands cupped his ass and jerked him closer. Despite teetering on the edge of his own orgasm, Stiles whimpered as Derek forced him upright and robbed his clutching fingers of that knot. His. That was Stiles'.

Then their cocks were aligned, slipping and sliding as Derek just kept coming, the scent enveloping Stiles like he'd slipped into another universe. A world made completely of Derek's scent. He wrapped his arms around Derek's neck and writhed, mewling and arching. Whimpering and trembling. Derek embraced Stiles' back with one long arm, smeared his fingers through the come at the corner of his mouth, and dragged it down his neck. Rubbed it into his bite. 

With a keen and a shudder, Stiles came. Clutching at Derek as his head swam and the world lost focus, he could only moan a protest as he was lifted and maneuvered, laid flat. His mate slipped from his grasp, but Stiles' searching hands caught Derek's wrist a moment later. 

Nostrils flaring, he tugged the heavenly, unearthly scent closer to his face. 

“Us,” Derek said. “You and me. As one.” 

He knew it was his come. Knew it. Knew it was strange or weird—whatever significance those words had to his life now. Knew it and didn't care. As Derek's other hand slid up and down Stiles' chest, massaging his come, his scent, deep into skin, Stiles forced the smell against his nose. As his mind stuttered and skipped, the last thing Stiles remembered was drawing Derek's fingers into his mouth and sucking like it was the last, the only, nourishment he'd ever need.


	7. Black Goo and a Broken Light

Stiles woke up in a meadow—naked and alone. As he startled upward, everything protested. His muscled throbbed, his head ached, and his rapidly blinking eyes burned. A fire blazed in a tidy fire pit, and weird, thick gunk stretched beneath his nose when he gaped. 

“What the hell?” 

Poking at the stuff—hoping real hard it wasn't snot—he grimaced to find it sticky. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when he pulled back his finger and saw black goo. Holy shit! Was he dying? Was black goo leaking out of his nose? Jerking to rub it away, he froze at Derek's abrupt appearance. 

“Don't touch it!” he bellowed. 

“Ah....” He watched Derek jog toward him, a dead bunny in his hands. Poor bunny. “What the shit, Derek?” 

“You've been in a frenzy all morning.” Derek bent and pulled a water bottle from a nearby bag Stiles hadn't noticed. “Drink this.” 

Derek opened the bottle before handing it to him, as if Stiles might be incapable. After a gulp, Stiles asked, “A frenzy? What's that—”

“Finish it!” Derek ordered. 

Stiles frowned at his tone. “You seem weird.” 

“I....” Derek started laughing and didn't stop, the sound hysterical and ugly. Finally, he managed, “I feel weird, I do. Now drink the damn water. You've been pouring sweat.” 

Since Derek was looking a little crazed himself, Stiles drank the water. He groaned when Derek shoved a second bottle at him, but drank half of it before handing it back with a shake of his head. Feeling a little sloshy, he asked, “What happened?” 

“What happened?” Derek pulled a mock-thoughtful expression. “Well, let's see, I knew damn well you needed to find control and get accustomed to your transition, but I overwhelmed you anyway. You passed out, which I knew would happen. Then you woke up surrounded in my scent, even less in control, and you've been writhing and crying and running a fever that would have killed you three days ago all morning. You sweated through three sets of sheets. Had a dozen spontaneous orgasms. Vomited all over the bed. And when I went to search the basement for the ointment we use to help our less capable children transition, you crawled naked out of the house and caused a huge scene. And now we're here.” 

That … was a lot. A lot of information. A lot of humiliation. But mostly, a lot of words for Derek to speak at once. The guy was wide eyed and twitchy, obviously at his wit's end. 

“Oh.” Stiles drew his knees up to his chest, trying to hide his nakedness. “So, this is ointment?” 

“It destroys your sense of smell.” Derek nodded manically. “You're still fucked. I've just hit pause.” 

“So I can drink some water?” He nodded at the bunny. “Get a good meal and power through?” 

“So you don't go into fucking heat!” The sound exploded out of Derek, and then his mate was grinning again, the expression forced and kinda scary. “Your body's trying to go into heat and you're not a werewolf yet. So, that's a problem.” 

Stiles blanched. “Heat?” 

Derek sucked air through his teeth, his eyes murderous and large, and then the crazy smile was back. He singsonged, voice saccharine sweet, “You don't know anything about mates, do you? Anything at all.” 

He wanted to take exception to the tone. Really, he did. But now didn't seem like the time to test Derek's patience. Clearly, that ship had passed. He shrugged. “Not really.” 

“There's a library,” Derek said. “In the house. It's big. Not as big as the internet, but you know, big enough. There are books. Several books, specifically on this.” 

Stiles gritted his teeth and tried out a wooden smile of his own. “I've been busy.” 

Derek shrugged, still grinning. “This is kind of important.” 

“Look, Derek, I get that you're pissed, okay?” 

“I'm not pissed.” He brought his hands before him, as if praying for patience. “I hate myself, and I want to throttle you, but I'm not pissed. I'm dealing with an unfortunate situation to the best of my ability.”

“You sound pissed.” 

Derek gritted his teeth and spoke through them. “This is how I sound when you almost die, Stiles.” 

He rubbed at his forehead, frustrated and annoyed. He wanted to tell Derek to sit down, to take a few deep breaths. But, at the same time, Stiles knew he wasn't actually okay. Derek had only bought them some time. What he really needed was information, but Derek's snarky mania wasn't the best lecture tone. 

“Okay.” He sucked in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I'm in trouble, but we can fix this.” 

At Derek's low snort, Stiles assured him, “I'm wicked smart. I've got this.” 

“You're a fucking idiot.” 

“Hey.” He shook his head. “Not nice. And not helping. Get on Team Stiles and let's handle this shit.” 

Cracking his neck, once to each side, Derek narrowed his eyes as if going into battle, and announced, “You're right. I'm good. Let's do this.” 

Stiles smiled and pulled the bag closer to him, hoping to find some clothes, maybe his computer. The big bag was full of water bottles, beef jerky, and weapons. Okay.... 

“Right. Well, first, I need a hypothesis. This is a mating issue, right?” He paused to think, his mind automatically forming queries for a search engine. “Werewolf transition problems after a mating. Heat triggered in mated werewolves during transition. Right? That sounds plausible. I didn't start acting weird until you got home, and other werewolves don't go through this. Am I correct?”

Seeming to calm more as Stiles spoke, Derek nodded. “Scent is a huge part of mating. That's how I knew you were mine. Your scent changed after I bit you, and changed again after you returned the bite. But you couldn't smell any of that. You only knew we were mated because I told you. Now, your body knows.” 

His vacation to crazy land after they'd separated begged to differ, but Stiles wasn't about to discourage Derek now that he was helping. There was a lot of merit to his words, anyway. 

“Right. So, I went from scent deaf to fully mated in the space of a few hours. My body needs to adjust.” 

Derek huffed. “I tried telling you that.” 

“And I'm owed one profound punishment once this is settled, but let's put a pin in that, okay? Team Stiles, just for a minute.”

“I'm always on your team,” Derek grumbled. 

Stiles nodded and offered him a somewhat placating smile. For all Derek was quick to point out Stiles' part in this mess, Stiles knew he was anxious to play the martyr. He also knew, Derek wasn't as up on werewolf lore as he'd like to pretend. He'd yelled at Stiles for not reading the right books, but Derek had let him return to Beacon Hills without returning the bite. He should have known better, but he hadn't. Not that Stiles blamed him—at all. Mating bonds were rare, and he'd only been a teenager when his pack died. After that, he and Laura had been alone for years, doing the best they could for each other. It wasn't Derek's fault that he wasn't an encyclopedia on pack lore. 

Which gave him an idea … a really, really bad idea. 

“Okay, here's what we're going to do. We're going to put out the fire, and bring the bunny with us, because we don't waste meat, and we're going to go home. I need things, and there's no point suggesting a plan where you leave me here to fetch them. Right?” 

Derek narrowed his eyes, but lowered his head in the barest of a nod. 

“Right. We're going to go home. I won't go inside the house, because if there's a hot zone, that's it. You're going to bring me clothes and my computer. Then we'll talk to Peter.” 

Stiles watched Derek go still. Watched his chest fill as he sucked a long, slow breath through his nose. His lips pursed for long seconds, and when he opened them Stiles could see the condescension on his carefully pleasant face. “Peter is charming, Stiles. I don't know what he said to convince you of his innocence, but it's a mistake to trust him with your life.” 

“One, don't insult me. Reading people is my job, okay? I see him and I see you, so stop. Two, even if Peter is killing people, he wants us to trust him and he's smart. Assuming his guilt, he'd probably help us just to win some favor.”

Derek's pleasant mask dropped. Strangely, he looked looser and more relaxed even as he scowled. “Or, he'd give us bad information because killing you is the same as killing me.” 

“But it's a slow death, right? You'd have time to rip him to pieces before you died?” 

“Stop talking about it!” Derek ordered.

“Look, Peter is our werewolf crone. We need his wisdom, and I don't think he's suicidal enough to kill me. Plus, I fact check like it's my job, okay? Now, let's Team Stiles roll out, and kick this thing's ass!”

Derek shook his head but extended a hand to help him up. “You're enjoying this too much.” 

“I'm a problem solver. It's kinda my thing.” 

“Your 'thing' is making problems that need solved.” 

“Bitch, bitch, bitch.” He grinned as Derek growled, but held up his hands in submission. “Sorry. Too soon.” 

***

Team Stiles was fully dressed and approaching Peter's cabin half an hour later. The door was yanked open before they could knock, and Peter looked Stiles up and down with a frown. As a relieved sigh loosened his shoulders, Stiles thought he was either a hell of an actor or had been legitimately worried. 

“Come in.” 

His cabin was fastidiously clean, except for the kitchen table. It held an open laptop and a scattering of books, post-it notes marking some pages and other books left bent open. A notebook sat before the pulled-out chair, a cup of coffee to one side, and a page of the notebook half-filled with scrawled notes. 

Peter was doing research. And judging by the titles Stiles saw, the research was for him, for Derek. 

“You're helping,” Stiles said. 

“Trying.” Peter snarled at the laptop. “Fucking search engine can't tell the difference between legitimate articles and erotica.” 

And it was on. Without further ado, Stiles cleared a space for his laptop and slid into a chair. As he powered the computer on, he said, “I subscribe to some academic databases. That might help. Here, write down your email. I'll send you a link and my login.”

Peter shook his head. “We'll waste time duplicating search results.” 

“Good point. I'll handle the internet and you focus on the books?” He cracked his knuckles. “I'm looking for transition problems in newly mated werewolves.” 

Nodding, Peter said, “Premature heats triggered by werewolf transition.” 

Stiles smiled vaguely. Obviously, he needed to do about a week's worth of background research, because he was shooting in the dark, but he'd have to learn as he went. Nonetheless, when he got his browser up and logged into the database, he used Peter's hypothesis. That's why he was here, after all. 

When Derek cleared his throat, Stiles actually jumped. Oh. 

“Ah, Derek, want to grab a book? Wait, actually, would you grab me a coffee? Please?” 

Derek sighed. “I'm not giving you caffeine, Stiles.” 

Without looking up from his book, Peter said, “There's tea in the cupboard.” 

He wanted to argue the point, because … coffee, but Derek had sounded upset to deny him in the first place. And, you know, he was probably right. Smiling up at his mate, Stiles said, “Tea sounds great.” 

Five minutes later, Stiles had his hands extended for his tea when both wolves looked to the door. It burst open a moment later, Erica not bothering to knock. Wide eyed, she stalled a foot inside the door, panting, and blurted, “There's been another murder!” 

“Oh, for fuck's sake!” Stiles snapped. “What happened to the cool down period? Christ!” 

He heard the words an instant after they left his mouth and glanced up to see Peter eyeing him suspiciously. Well, shit. 

Derek jerked forward, werewolf grace apparently forgotten, because Stiles' tea jostled and spilled. As Stiles made grabby hands for whatever remained in the metal mug, Derek threw it into the sink without a glance—at the sink or Stiles' frown. 

“Guys!” Erica yelled. “It's Kate Argent.” 

Derek froze, looking oddly confused and vulnerable. “What?” 

“Good!” Peter barked, then laughed. At Stiles' harsh look, he shrugged. “I can say that because I smell like semen and sweat, thanks to you.” 

When Stiles looked pointedly at Derek, his mate nodded, but his expression was far away. “I don't know what to say.” 

“Ding dong the witch is dead?” Peter suggested. 

Erica snarled. “How about, ding dong let's hope the hunters don't have rocket launchers? Allison is losing her fucking mind, and we still can't find Scott!”

“Calm,” Stiles said. “Okay, Derek, you need to represent the wolves. I'll come with you.” 

Apparently, Derek did not hear him say 'calm' because he flashed red eyes. “You're not going to a crime scene!” 

Trying to give Derek very subtle not-in-front-of-Peter eyes, Stiles said, “I really should, though.” 

“You're not going!” 

But Stiles was already double checking his history had been wiped like it was scheduled to and password protecting his documents. Assured his computer was safe for Peter's eyes, he said, “I am, though.” 

Derek slammed a hand on the table, proving once and for all that he had no respect for coffee. Shoving his face into Stiles', he growled, “You're not going!” 

***

Stiles jumped out of the car, a fresh layer of black goo beneath his nose, and stared at the door surrounded by cops. He'd been trying to ignore Derek's murderous pout the entire ride over, but that suddenly seemed inconsequential. That the murder had taken place at the same no-tell motel he'd stayed in after returning to Beacon Heights was weird. That the killer had used the same room … that was a problem. 

“I, Derek, I think—”

“You wanted to come, let's go!” 

He started a quick walk toward the motel, but Stiles darted forward to grab his arm. “No! Listen to me. This is where I stayed. That's the room where Erica and Isaac found me. I think, fuck, I think this is a threat.” 

Derek scanned his surroundings quickly, a low growl echoing. A passing cop heard the sound and took a quick step to the side, watching Derek until he'd reached the room. “Against us?” 

“Think about it. The room I was staying in, and the person you hate most in the world. This doesn't feel personal to you?” 

“You think someone knows?” 

“Oh!” Stiles' blushed, tried to recover the conversations they'd had since yesterday, and grimaced. “Erica knows. I, ah, forgot to tell you. She guessed, kinda, and I told her. And we, shut the … you know, that doesn't important.” 

Snarling and shaking his head, Derek snapped, “Good to know.” 

“I'm sorry!” 

Derek only shook his head. “She found you here.” 

“It's not Erica.” At Derek's hard glare, he said, “I'm, like, 99, okay, 85 percent sure.” 

The glare lasted longer than usual. So long Stiles fidgeted and asked, “We're fighting, aren't we?” 

“Yes, Stiles. We're fighting.” 

Gulping, he tried to joke, “My first make-up sex. Score.” 

Derek jerked his arm out of Stiles' grip. “You can't function without that shit on your face. Sex isn't even....” He raised his hands before him and clenched them into fists. 

“Are you saying this isn't sexy?” 

“Shut up.” 

He didn't fight when Derek grabbed the back of his neck and dragged him toward the door. Whether the cops knew they were coming or had the sense to get out of Derek's way, he didn't know. Just knew he stumbled into the crime scene when Derek gave him a shove, and righted himself to meet his father's blinking gaze. 

“What's that?” his dad asked, gesturing to the ointment. 

Stiles pulled a face and shook his head. “Don't ask.” 

“You don't wanna fucking know,” Derek snarled. 

If he'd expected some solidarity from his father, he was sorely disappointed. His dad gave Stiles the same look he'd given him after discovering the dog hidden in Stiles' closet, and offered Derek a sorry-my-son's-an-idiot grimace/shrug combination.

“Anyway!” Stiles declared, and drew his professional persona around himself. 

Focusing on the scene was necessary, but not pleasant. He wouldn't have lifted a finger to keep Kate alive, but this was an obscene end, even for her. If it was her. The hair looked right, and a cell phone and ID were bagged on the dresser, but he'd need forensic confirmation before he believed it definitively. 

“Is the smell the same?” he asked Derek, only to receive a terse nod. Great. “Okay. Dad, you have werewolves on the force, right?” 

“Yeah, of course,” the sheriff said. 

“Good. I want that documented.” 

Because he couldn't alibi Derek. He'd passed out in the early evening and hadn't regained consciousness until the meadow. Copy cat murders weren't uncommon, and he didn't want anyone pointing an accusing finger at his mate. 

“Victimology is back on track, which makes Aiden's murder even more of an aberration. We have to investigate who needed him dead, because he doesn't fit the pattern.” 

He heard the sigh in his voice. They hadn't done that. Beside the research and emails he'd sent out, they hadn't done anything he'd suggested during the analysis of the last crime scene. He and Derek should be taken off the case. He knew that. Their relationship was becoming a distraction and they were letting details slip through their fingers. Sucking in a deep breath, he put those thoughts from his head. Pushing away the little voice that said Kate's death wasn't a great loss, he returned his focus to the scene before him. 

“Hell yeah!” he exclaimed. 

“What?” his dad asked. 

“Look at the severed legs! They're the same!” 

His dad quirked a brow. “Yeah?” 

“Now look at the table!” It was smaller. Much smaller. One of those little breakfast tables, not a full-sized kitchen table. “The legs hang off, but the cuts....” 

He hurried around the table and bent low, craning his body to the side, to look up at the seared flesh. “Ha! It's clean nearly to the bottom, but the last eighth of an inch is angled! This is great.” 

“What, Stiles?” Derek asked. 

“Look at this blood pattern. Look at it!” Blood pooled beneath the severed legs, proving the body hadn't been moved, but for the first time, its edges were smudged and the blood splatter uneven and disrupted. “This proves the presence of a second assailant. Look. Someone had to hold the legs steady as the second assailant sawed. The ragged texture at the bottom was caused as the leg began to fall away and the assailant was forced to change the angle. Look at the spatter. See those clean spaces? That's from the person holding the legs. Their body obscured the spray, caught a lot of blood. Dad, I want a blood spatter analyst in here.”

“I can get someone in from Sacramento.” 

“Great, do it.” 

“Just guessing here, but it doesn't look very wide. I'll want the report, but it looks like a small man or maybe a woman.” 

Derek shifted and announced, “I'm going to sniff around. But I'm just searching for peppermint at this point. Don't even know what good it'll do.” 

The downtrodden tone in his voice hurt. Stiles' smile of encouragement died on his lips when Derek glared. They were definitely fighting. 

“Okay.” If he couldn't put that from his mind, he truly had no business being here. So he tried—hard. “Let's see, what else?” 

He looked around, begging his mind to cooperate. “The bed hasn't been disturbed. So she wasn't lured here under the pretense of sex. Or, she was, but it didn't get that far. Are these the only weapons you've found? Have they been moved?” 

Beside the bagged ID and phone, the dresser held a gun, hunting knife, and spray canister that probably contained wolfsbane. More than she'd take to meet a lover, maybe, but maybe not. Definitely less than she'd take on a hunting mission. 

“That's all, and we haven't touched them,” his dad said. 

“When you question the Argents, would you ask if those are her everyday weapons or if she was armed for trouble? Where was she even hiding that canister? You didn't find a purse?” 

His dad paled and nodded toward the severed legs in the corner. “She has two ankle holsters, one for the spray.” 

Stiles grimaced and looked quickly away. “And the knife? Find a sheath?” 

“At the small of her back, maybe? We haven't moved her.” 

“Right.” 

“Honestly, I'll bet she didn't leave the house without those, but ask anyway.” 

At his dad's nod, Stiles tried to expand his sight and find something else. But it all looked the same. She'd survived her legs being severed. Blood had streamed from her mouth and down her chin after the tongue's removal. The eyes were collapsed and her teeth crammed inside. Her fingernails had been ripped off. 

“The cauterization!” He'd had a theory about this. The absence of fuel particles in the wounds had struck him as odd from the start. But, at each scene, they'd discovered some metal surface the assailant had used to cauterize the wounds. “There's no heat source here. I've never thought they used fire. Not even a blow torch. I think it's magic. But where did they find metal? Or did they bring it with them?” 

He searched the small room until his eyes lit upon the coffee maker. No.... He walked over, feeling sure he was wrong, and removed the coffee pot. 

“Well, shit.” 

“Language, Stiles. I'm still your father.” 

“Sorry!” He motioned his dad over. “Look at this. See the tool marks along its base? They pried the warming plate free and used it to cauterize the wounds. What is this made of, do you know?” 

His dad gave him an incredulous look. 

“Right. But, it's made to get warm but not hot, right? I'm not sure. I need to know how receptive this thing is to heat. Would a blow torch get it hot enough to cauterize, or has that been ruled out?” 

He dad nodded and scribbled it down. Stiles asked, “Can your men handle that? I could do the research myself.” 

“We've got it, Stiles.” 

“Okay. Let me know.” 

His mind roved through the standards of investigation. His dad would need to get a guest list, question everyone. Check traffic cameras. ATM's. He wanted to list these things out loud, but suspected his dad wouldn't thank him if he did. 

“Was the room rented?” he asked. 

“No. The door was pried open. Someone checked out yesterday at two, the room sat unused all night, and an electrician found the body at three. The strange thing is, it was listed as 'out of order' in the computer system. The bathroom light isn't working.”

“Reported as not working, or not working?” 

“Not working. Flipped the switch myself.” 

“Interesting.” He frowned. “Does the computer have internet access?” 

“The clerk says it does, yeah.” 

“Is there a camera in the lobby?” 

“Yeah, but the recording function went down last night.” 

He shared a significant look with his father. “It could have been manual, but I'm betting on a hack. I want an analyst on it ASAP.”

“Anything else?” 

“Light this place up. This is the best chance we'll get at foot prints, I think.” 

“Okay.” He glanced at his watch. “The crime scene people should be here soon.”

“Oh.” Stiles looked toward the door, where several officers stood, and moved closer to his dad. He whispered, “Make sure to dust the bathroom light. Find out who reported the light broken and when they noticed it. If no one did, it could have been part of the hack, and the light could have been broken during the murder. Have an electrician check it out, maybe? If the last guests or the maid found it broken, create a time frame and check any video feed you can find. I think this room was chosen, and the light was their means of keeping it empty.” 

“What's so special about this room?” 

He wanted to shrug the question away, couldn't bare worrying his father, but admitted, “Don't be surprised if you find my fingerprints.” 

“Damn it, Stiles!” 

He gave a quick shake of his head and took one last look around. Maybe something would come to him later, but he couldn't see anything else worth mentioning. He said, “I think I'm done here.” 

“You and Derek—”

He sighed. “It'll be fine, dad. We just, growing pains, you know?” 

His dad nodded. “I'm proud of you, kid. What you can do, this? I'm proud.” 

Stiles smiled. Now wasn't the time to tell him that Stiles would be a werewolf soon. Now wasn't the time to admit he kept fucking things up. With a shrug, he said, “Thanks, dad.” 

***

Leaning back in the passenger seat, Stiles sighed. They were home. The engine was off—had been for several minutes. Through mutual, silent agreement, neither had moved. No words had been spoken. As he watched, a curtain at the Hale house was drawn aside and a dark silhouette became visible. The curtain fluttered back into place an instant later, but even Stiles knew the pack was waiting. They needed to talk to the pack, needed to talk to Peter, and—most of all—needed to talk to each other. 

“Something has to change,” Derek said. 

Stiles sighed his agreement. “This isn't working. We're letting everything slide.” 

“No more sex,” Derek said, polite enough to sound disappointed. “Not until you transition.” 

Forcing a wooden smile, Stiles asked, “Is that my punishment?” 

“It's both our punishment.” He slouched down in his seat and confessed, “I knew I was doing the wrong thing, Stiles. Every instinct told me it was wrong, but I wanted you. I wanted to make you happy. I feel like, I don't know, I'm always the bad guy. You're carefree and gorgeous, and I l—” he cut himself off with a groan, then rolled his eyes. “I love you, Stiles. Of course I do, but I don't want to be the one growling and telling you no.” 

“We don't know each other very well,” Stiles whispered. “I love you, too, but I don't know you. I don't know anything about being a mate. And we have things we're supposed to be doing. I feel like I'm being pulled in a dozen directions and I'm dropping balls left and right.”

In the silence of the car, Derek held out his hand. Stiles took it, entwining their fingers. “No more sex,” Derek repeated, like a pact. 

“Talking,” Stiles agreed. “Instead of massages, we'll talk. I love your filthy mouth, but I need you to say more than that.” 

“I shouldn't have expected your obedience. I want you to obey. I want you to because you can hear in my voice the difference between a request and a necessity. I want you to trust that I'm not unreasonable or on a power trip, or ever out to hurt or disappoint you. But that's trust and familiarity, and I haven't earned either.” He squeezed Stiles' hand. “So, I'm sorry. I tried to approach being your mate the same way I approached being an alpha to soldiers. But I don't outrank you, and you're not paid to listen to me. You're my partner.” 

Stiles lifted their joined hands and, careful of the ointment, kissed Derek's hand. Suddenly exhausted, he grumbled, “God, I want this day to end. Our bed's calling my name.” 

“Our bed's covered in vomit.” 

He whimpered until he laughed. “How about, you go talk to the pack, swing by Peter's to tell him we'll talk in the morning, and I put this ointment to good use and clean the bedroom?” 

“How about, we claim an empty bedroom in the house, and tomorrow I'll find Laura's recipe book and brew some potpourri.” 

Stiles raised a brow. “Potpourri?” 

“That's what my mom called it. My other aunt and uncle were mated, and even using the heat room, when they came out, the entire house stunk. The potpourri erased the scent, made the entire house smell like....” 

Derek's hand tightened in his and Stiles asked, “Peppermint?” 

“No. I would have remembered that, but, stupid! The first year they were with us, every few months the house smelled like vanilla. I heard my dad complain it was ruining cookies for him. I didn't get it, but then it started smelling like patchouli. So I asked my mom and she explained about the potpourri.”

“So, if someone put peppermint in it instead?”

Derek turned to him slowly and lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “It's a wolf, Stiles. The killer's pack.”


	8. Don't Know Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot for days, folks. Hope you enjoy.

Stiles woke up to the sound of a waterfall atop his head. Eyes wide and blinking, he lifted an arm to fend off the water, but found none. Realizing belatedly that he was hearing a shower—that his heightened hearing had kicked in—Stiles groaned and rolled over in the twin-sized bed. It took him another minute to remember where he was and why. A lingering minute of self-indulgent depression later, he kicked away the covers and stood. 

“It's handling time. Stiles is going to handle this bullshit harder than bullshit's ever been handled! Bullshit's gonna be like, 'no, stop! Have mercy!' but Team Stiles will cackle and make it his bitch!”

And, sure, talking about himself in the third person might not be the best thing ever, but the pep talk did him good. When Derek had gone to waylay Peter until morning, Peter had announced his findings instead: the mates needed to be separated and reintroduced in a more gradual, temperate way. Which explained why Stiles had spent the night in his father's guest room—which his dad insisted on calling Stiles' despite him never living there—instead of cuddling with his mate. On the up side, he'd slept without the black goo on his nose and wasn't running a fever or vomiting, so that was something. Downside? Derek had slept in the backseat of their rental, the car parked outside the house. 

Which meant Derek had probably heard his Stiles-centric pep talk. But whatever. 

Derek didn't matter right now. He did, of course. But Stiles would have a lifetime of Derek, and the him and Derek thing was getting fucked by the crazy serial killer thing, and Stiles was only being paid—or qualified—to solve one of those mysteries. So … it was bullshit handling time and mate time would have to wait. 

Throwing on a tee shirt, he left his bedroom and went straight to his dad's office. Score! As usual, several extra whiteboards leaned against the wall, waiting to be used. He snatched up three, found a box of—multicolored!—dry erase markers and returned to his room. The wall's generic landscape picture was deposed and, with the help of painter's tape he found in the garage, Stiles had created himself a work space before the waterfall quieted. 

This. This is what he needed. A work space safe from potential suspects. 

The desk was bare, but the dresser held pictures of their family. Pressing a kiss to the picture of his mom and dad, and gathering the pictures of himself, he moved them to a shelf in the closet. Stiles cackled to himself as he unpacked his laptop bag, arranging and organizing the files as the laptop powered up. 

He could analyze the hell out of himself: subject seeks to impose order during a turbulent time to reestablish a sense of control and autonomy. Or maybe he just really likes shit organized and color coordinated. Sometimes a cigar was just a cigar. 

Which reminded him—Derek. He didn't want to do it, he really didn't, but he went to his bag of clothes and pulled out a gallon-sized ziplock bag. Or, specifically, Derek's tee shirt was inside a ziplock bag, which was inside a ziplock bag, which was inside another ziplock bag. Stiles unsealed the first bag, set the bundle on his bed, and turned back to the boards. 

The smallest hint of Derek reached his nose, but it was manageable. Putting it from his mind, he went to the first whiteboard and wrote “TO DO” in big black letters. 

TO DO: 

Dad—depth of saw strokes; warmer plate/heat; time frame of broken light; computer hacked?  
Suspects—pack (wolf and human); Others?  
Potpourri—ingredients; common knowledge?; fingerprint Laura's cookbook  
Aiden—before the trail goes cold, fucktard!  
First Tibia—Whose? Why? When? Where? How?  
Stiles—Full moon—4 days; get right; bond with D  
Argents—Stop War. 

Stepping back, he blinked at the list but refused to let himself get overwhelmed. Break it down. One thing at a time. Delegate. Chip away. Piece of cake. 

Speaking of cake … he could eat one. A cake, not a piece of cake. Or a pizza! Or a sub. Wings! Pizza and wings, with a sub chaser and cake for desert. Yes....

A knock shook him out of his daydream, and Stiles swallowed quickly before calling, “Come in!” 

Stupid! Stupid loud. He was still shaking the ringing from his ears when his dad stepped inside, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. Stiles got his hopes up before his dad took a sip, ignoring Stiles' pout as he looked around the room. Really, his dad wasn't looking at him much at all. Right … he'd confessed to being a werewolf last night. Dropped his sensitivity to Derek's smell like a bomb, waited for his dad's numb nod, and stumbled up the stairs to pass out—all within the space of five minutes. 

Still staring at the wall instead of him, his dad said, “Looking good, kiddo.” 

Stiles nodded and moved forward to write “Suspects” on top of an empty whiteboard. He grumbled, “I'm just getting started.” 

“I could use some fresh eyes,” John said, walking closer to poke through the files. “Maybe I'll work from home today, coordinate our efforts. If you don't mind the help?” 

Stiles thought back, to listening in on his dad's phone calls and sneaking into his office for quick peeks through confidential files. He'd dreamed then of working side by side with his father, and it meant even more now. Maybe his dad wasn't happy, or comfortable—maybe he'd cried in the shower for all Stiles knew—but he wasn't running. 

Swallowing hard, he said, “I'd like that.” 

His dad offered a quick, sideways smile. “Well, then, why don't I get started on the 'dad' list. Anything you need before I start making calls?” 

“A pizza?” 

“It's not even eight, Stiles. I don't think anyone's delivering.” 

“A frozen pizza?” 

John squinted at him and Stiles felt on top of the world. “Is this a trick question?” 

“Give up the contraband, dad. I'm starving.” As his dad left the room, Stiles called, “It better not be meat lovers.” 

“I was gonna pick 'em off!” 

He grinned. His ears were ringing, a slow ache taking up residence behind his eyes, but he grinned. With the world right again, or at least rotating in the right direction, he went back to work. Moving to the suspects board, he drew a line across the bottom third, then separated the top with a vertical line. In the upper left space he listed the pack members who were werewolves. The humans went in the upper right. And in the bottom section he wrote “others.” 

As his mind was chasing the needle-in-a-haystack “others” option, his phone rang. It was Derek. 

“Hey, Derek! Sorry you had to sleep in the car. I'm feeling better, though.” 

“I can tell.” The hint of humor in his voice shook something loose in Stiles. “What are my orders, boss?” 

Stiles hummed a little laugh even as he tilted his head, listening harder. He could have sworn.... “Say something else.” 

“I miss you.” 

“I can hear you!” He added on a hasty, “And I miss you, too. We're gonna handle this bullshit, and then the only thing on my to-do list will be 'Derek.'” 

“Your hearing's kicked in?” Derek asked, his voice lowered to almost a whisper. “Is hearing me a problem?” 

“Nah. I like it. Don't whisper.” He realized the symmetry between this and his behavior when his smell kicked in and assured Derek, “It's not like before. I'm not all weird. Just, I like hearing you. A normal amount. I mean, a lot, but—”

“I got ya.” 

He grinned. “Good.” 

“Now, Team Stiles roll out, remember?” Derek laughed, clearly mocking him just a little bit, but Stiles found himself sinking into the desk chair with a grin. “What do you need me to do?” 

“Do you have a picture phone?” 

Derek hummed his agreement. “What do you need?” 

“A selfie?” 

A moment of silence fell, then Derek said, “I don't understand.” 

“Take a picture of yourself and send it to me.” 

Derek groaned. “I thought you meant for the case. We're focusing on the case, remember?” 

“No, yeah, I totally am. But, this is important. For my well being. What if I start missing you too much? And the only way I get through the day is a picture of your probably-not-smiling face? Or abs. Or, you know, whatever you feel like taking a picture of. Wink, wink.” 

“It's going to be quicker to do this than argue, isn't it?” 

“It really is! You've already wasted a minute of my serious-professional time. I'm holding you responsible for that.” 

“Fine. I'm hanging up.” 

“You don't know where your camera is, do you?” 

The phone went dead, but he heard Derek's distant mutter of, “I'll figure it out.” 

Stiles eyed the window, wanting to open it so he could hear Derek better. But, he'd also smell Derek better, and they had a plan—one he was determined not to fuck up. Instead, he snapped a picture of his happy grin and another with a slight smirk and his bared neck. He sent both over, then waited. Waited so long he had time to write “Aiden” on the clean whiteboard. Because the deviation was the key. He knew it. 

Finally, his phone beeped. Stiles had the first picture open—one of Derek looking grumpy—when two more beeps sounded. The second picture was gorgeous. Derek's head was bowed slightly, looking a little shy even as he smiled a small, private smile. Stiles immediately saved it as his wallpaper and lock screen, grinning hugely as he did so. The last picture was, hot damn! Derek's abs. His mate was a kind and benevolent god. 

He heard Derek say, “Happy?” 

The sound was just quiet enough that he called Derek back, not wanting to strain his hearing too much or push it to even more uncomfortable heights. When Derek picked up, Stiles laughed into the phone. 

“You're awesome!” 

“I'm glad you're happy.” Derek grumbled, “I like your picture, too.” 

“Okay! Now, on to serious work. I need you to handle two things. If you finish them, we'll talk about a third. But first, you need to find Laura's recipe book. If it's not where it should be, that'll tell us something. Try asking, I don't know, Allison, maybe, when she saw it last. If you find it, bring it to me, please. I need to know the ingredients, and I'd like to get it dusted for fingerprints. There might be oil residue even if it's been wiped clean.” 

“Okay. Find the cookbook. What else?” 

“If Scott's not back, you need to handle that. Suddenly he's looking guilty and then he's gone? That's a huge problem. He basically coordinated our entire case, Derek. If he's guilty, he brought us here. Well, you. There's an end game, and I don't know what it is. If he brought you here? Again, problem. If he didn't, we've got an alpha that's abandoned his pack and his wife, and that sounds like a missing alpha to me. The Argents could have him. The killers could have him. Delegate, whatever, but someone needs to find him.”

Derek sighed. “If Scott's gone, I'll have to stick around the estate. This kind of power imbalance when things are so tense—”

“And the killers possibly among them,” Stiles added. 

“End game?” Derek asked. 

“Whose? Are there players we aren't aware of yet? Trying to weaken and destroy the pack? Internally, if someone shows up as an alpha, there are going to be questions, right? They can't be, all, 'oh, I don't know where Scott is, but look how red my eyes are!'” 

“Maybe....” Stiles heard a thunk, as if Derek had hit something or slammed his head back against the seat. “What if Scott is being tortured? What if we're meant to find him just in time?” 

Stiles frowned. “Just in time?” 

“For a mercy killing. What if they're reenacting Laura's death? Only the killers intend to find him, to take his status?” 

“Fuck.” Something ugly churned inside his gut. “Why does that sound like Peter?” 

“Because that sounds like fucking Peter!” Derek growled. “What if he added a drop of sweat and semen to the potpourri? Would that work?” 

“You're asking me?” 

Stiles glanced at his suspects board and snorted. He'd need post-its instead. String. Even the idea of color coordinating didn't lessen the anxiety in his gut. 

“Look, we don't know what's going on. Scott could be fine. He could be dead. Maybe … two of the victims were Argents, right? Scott's the alpha and he, air quotes, stole Allison. If the Argents were going to retaliate, they'd start with Scott. So, a hunter kills Scott, and a wolf could ascend to alpha by popular choice, right? Which could be Peter again, or someone else. Boyd? Jackson? A human helping them.” 

“I can't see a human pack member doing this.” 

Stiles snorted. “That's because you're prejudiced. But we humans are fantastic at killing things. You could call it a special skill.” 

“Says the werewolf.” 

“Yeah, now, and remember who was super pissed about that?” 

“Ethan?” 

“On behalf of his boyfriend, Danny. Think about it, Scott won't let Danny be a werewolf, then Scott is looking guilty, and Ethan is looking for vengeance. Plus, I've always liked Danny for this. His internet history has serial killer written all over it, and he knows about magic. Then there's Allison, who probably wouldn't hurt Scott, ah, unless, you did sign Laura's life insurance over. But anyway, assuming she wants him alive, maybe she's got him tucked away somewhere. Maybe she wants the hunters dead before they can kill Scott, or her future children? And Lydia? Does she, or does she not, strike you as an evil mastermind? Pretty, yeah, but there's a stone cold bitch—” 

“Stop.” Derek groaned. “I get it. We don't know shit.” 

Stiles echoed, “We don't know shit.”

They sat in silence for long seconds, Stiles' earlier enthusiasm crushed and buried. With cheer he didn't feel, he chirped, “So, find me Laura's cookbook, would you? And Scott. Look for Scott.” 

“Are you still 85 percent sure Erica's innocent?” 

“I'm back to a solid 93 percent.” Stiles laughed. “She'd make a shitty alpha and she knows it. Of course, Boyd would make a great alpha and she's sleeping with him, so....” 

“So, 93 percent is as good as we've got, so I'm sending her your way.” 

“Derek, you'll need her to search. There are only so many people you can trust.” 

“And even fewer I trust to protect you. Don't argue with me.” 

Trying out his new, Derek-occasionally-knows-best attitude, Stiles said, “Okay. They're your resources to manage.” 

He snorted, but said, “Thank you.” 

“Thank you for keeping me safe.” Stiles smiled into the phone, imagining Derek could sense it somehow. “Okay, get to work. Love you.” 

“I love you.” And, of course, he tacked on, “Don't leave the house without Erica. And call me!” 

“Bye, Derek.” 

Stiles looked around the room, feeling a little ridiculous and a lot over his head. Entire teams had failed to solve this case using traditional police work. That's why he was “undercover.” He was supposed to be watching, you know, for the murderer to walk by in blood-splattered clothes, clasping a fresh tibia in their hand. At the very least, he was supposed to be making friends in the pack, but he'd barely said a word to most of them. Failure, thee name be Stiles. 

“Hey, Mr. Whiny-Pants?” Stiles addressed himself. “How about you get your shit together? Okay? Okay!” 

After unplugging his computer and moving it to the bed momentarily, Stiles dragged the desk across the room and pressed it against the closet door. And, ta-da! Another wall. Thinking about where he'd get multicolored string, he felt his heart ache. But there was nothing for it. His mother had started a bunch of crochet projects—finished few, but started many. Which was why, when they'd left Beacon Hills, he'd carried a garbage bag of yarn and sad, unfinished projects directly to their new attic. Stiles would wager his dad did the same when he'd moved back. 

Scavenging his mom's yarn seemed wrong. But she wouldn't mind, he didn't think. She was a cop's wife. She put up with cold dinners, late nights, and canceled plans all her life with good cheer. His mom would sacrifice unused yarn to save someone's life. 

“I love you, Mom.” 

He said that, sometimes. Not that he believed in heaven, or her lingering spirit—though, it wouldn't hurt his feelings to be wrong. He just said it, because he did. Loved her and missed her. He said it less and less every year, every month, and that hurt, too. 

Pushing the thoughts away, he ventured to the attic and returned a few minutes later with all the yarn he could need. When he walked in, his dad was sitting on the bed, his piece of pizza hovering before his mouth. Stiles froze, feeling guilty and caught. 

“I didn't think mom would mind,” he said, blaming the stinging in his eyes on stupid werewolf hormones. 

“She wouldn't,” John said, and took a bite. 

“I didn't think she would.” 

He carried his handful to the wall, but hesitated to set it on the ground. He could smell his mother. Could smell, too, the strong stench of garbage bag and damp yarn, but that wasn't the point. Still, he was committed now, and carrying it back to the attic would be worse than using it. He was going to cut it, string it across the wall, and—when the case was solved—he was going to tear it down and throw it away. Setting it on the floor was nothing. He fought every instinct not to take off his shirt and put the yarn on that. Instead, he brought the armful closer to his face and sniffed deeply. 

“Pizza's getting cold.” 

“Right.” He bent and laid the yarn down, like it was a baby rather than bundles of half-rotten string. “Sorry.”

“It's fine, Stiles.” 

He went for the pizza, dragging the entire thing to the floor with him. Because he was starving. But instead of eating, he stared. It smelled funny. Erased his mother. Fucking pizza. Eyes wide, he jumped to his feet—quickly!—and rushed to Derek's shirt. He jerked the bag sealed, glaring behind him at the pizza as if it had dared to intentionally threaten Derek's scent.

Then he felt ridiculous. Bared. His dad was watching him act like a lunatic, like a stranger. 

“I'm sorry,” Stiles said. “I'm sorry if you're mad. Or sad.” 

“It's just yarn, Stiles.” 

“Not the yarn. Me. I didn't mean for this to happen.” He turned away from his father and circled back to the pizza. “I'm acting all weird, and you're … thank you for letting me stay.” 

“Son, we better get one thing straight right now. This is your home. I am your father. I don't care if you're human or werewolf. I don't care if you're a Fed or a dishwasher. You're my son and I love you. Now, I don't want to hear another word of that crap, you hear me?” 

Stiles ducked his head. “Yeah, Dad. I hear ya.” 

“Good. Now, eat. But save me a slice. Werewolf or not, I taught you to share.” 

“Okay, Dad.” 

***

Stiles had each pack member's name on a note card, the cards on the wall with pink yarn denoting romantic relationships, when his dad ushered Erica into the room. Stiles couldn't help but grimace, Erica's name on the wall with everyone else—everyone else she loved and considered pack. For long seconds she only stared.

“Is Scott back?” he asked. 

She diverted her gaze long enough to give Stiles a significant look as she shook her head. Then Erica jerked her chin at the wall and said, “Don't forget, Danny followed Jackson home from college like a lost puppy before he and Ethan ever got involved. And Isaac is a little too close with Allison and Scott.” 

Stiles smiled—glad she wasn't pissed—then asked, “How close?” 

“Before Scott was alpha, too close. Now he's just their pet or something.”

“Who does Isaac want more?” 

Erica shrugged. “I saw that boy pout for a week after killing a fawn on a full moon. If he's torturing people, he's running the best long con I've ever seen.” 

“Can I?” Stiles gestured between Erica and the wall. “Would you?” 

“Rat out everyone in my pack?” She shrugged again. “Why the hell not? Here, Derek found this.” 

She pulled a thick, somewhat-battered book from behind her somewhere. Was it tucked into her pants? His happiness at its presence was almost eclipsed by the physical impossibility of anything fitting in those pants, but he shook the thought away and grabbed for the book.

Pushing back the desire to delve into it immediately, he held up a finger and rushed to his computer. Five minutes later—his concentration only slightly broken by Erica leafing through the case files, because she probably shouldn't—he'd created a spreadsheet that filled his chest with deep, deep satisfaction. Having already networked his laptop and his dad's printer, he hit print and announced, “Be right back!” 

Stiles was halfway down the stairs before he realized Erica was following him. When he turned to give her a quizzical look, she said, “Bodyguard, remember?” 

Literally. Okie dokie. Stiles ran into his dad's office, earning a slight frown from his dad for interrupting his phone conversation. Grabbing his prize from the tray, Stiles turned and jogged back upstairs, huffing a laugh when his dad shut the door behind them. If the sheriff thought that phone call was private with two werewolves in the house, he was a little slow on the uptake. It was all Stiles could do to focus on his own work instead of his father's voice.

“What's the plan, spazz?” 

“Ah, when did I become 'spazz?'” 

“Since your newbie adrenaline kicked in and you started spazzing out?” 

“Anyway.” He motioned her to look at the paper, strangely aware of his every movement. “It's a basic spreadsheet. Pack members are the left column, and the top row consists of character traits. Aggression, intelligence, honesty, cunning, and so forth. Rate each person on a scale of one to ten. If you want a term defined, just ask. And if you need to equivocate any of your answers, put a letter beside the numerical score and use that letter to create an end note. That's where—”

“I may not be a super nerd, but I'm not stupid.”

“Right. Sorry.” He fidgeted in the briefest pause and frowned. Maybe Erica wasn't far off. “Use the bed.” 

When she grabbed a case file to write on and the pen sitting atop it, Stiles leapt forward and snatched the pen out of her hands. Ha! That was kinda quick. How fast was he now? Was he full wolf, or just a little adrenaline high? Anyway! 

“Pencil.” He grabbed a mechanical pencil out of the pack and offered it to her. “This is a job for a pencil.”

After a thorough glare, she grabbed the pencil and moved to the bed.

Free to dive into Laura's cookbook, Stiles pulled on a pair of latex gloves from his bag, settled at the desk, and began his search. Reading through recipe after recipe of actual food accomplished nothing but the continuous rumble of his stomach, but Stiles soldiered on. Then he found it: Potpourri. It was filed under “odds n' ends” between a pickling recipe and hummingbird food. Honestly, Stiles was surprised. So surprised that his entire theory seemed less sound. Would it really be here if a killer was using it? Did the killer think removing it would be more suspicious? 

Either way. He couldn't quit in the face of success. He read through the ingredients quickly, then blinked, taken aback. Beyond several household items, the recipe called for blood. Two types. Blood from an alpha and blood from a recipient mate. One, what the fuck was a recipient mate? And B, how did the killer get the blood of any mated wolf? He and Derek were the only mates around, weren't they? And the potpourri had a shelf life of two weeks, so it needed to be brewed fresh for each heat, or almost every murder. Assuming they had the ingredients, where was it being brewed? 

Erica set the spreadsheet on the bed. “Thanks for putting my name on there, ass. Tens across the board.” 

Though distracted, Stiles muttered, “They weren't all positive traits, Erica.” 

“Says you.” He looked up in time to see her examining her nails, which were elongating and shrinking as she grinned. “I'll take a ten on aggression any day.” 

“Okay.” He glanced back at the recipe, frowning. “Maybe we were wrong.” 

“Should I mark the calendar?” 

He raised his head to glare at her and shrank back as a weird little growl erupted from his throat. Mouth gaping, he clapped a hand to his throat as Erica cackled. “Terrifying, Stiles. Really.” 

“Would you stop?” He gestured to the recipe. “It takes the blood of a mated wolf. Could there be other wolves in Beacon Hills? You guys would, like, sniff them out, right?” 

Erica shook her head slowly, but she looked guilty—like she'd broken something expensive and didn't want to fess up to it. “Ah … we've got a problem. Or, Scott, mostly. Scott's got a problem.”

“Well?” 

“A couple months ago, before the murders started, these wolves contacted Scott. Two of them, mates, they wanted to join our pack. But they wanted to meet the alpha first, were all twitchy, abused about it. So, Scott set it up and went to meet them, but when he came back a few hours later, he said they never showed.” 

Stiles scowled, conflicted and confused. This was the kind of clue that broke cases. This is what he had been looking for. Yet, why was his first instinct to bury this information and never share it with anyone? It's not like he knew Scott well. It's not like he owed Scott any loyalty. So why did his stomach suddenly ache? 

Groaning, he said, “That's the first tibia, isn't it? The first known victim was stabbed through the heart with a fresh tibia, so we knew there had to be an earlier victim. All along, I've wondered why it wasn't displayed like the rest. The first victims were the mated wolves. Their blood was harvested for the potpourri, and at least one tibia was taken. But beyond leading everyone directly to the pack, maybe to Scott, the killers' scents were all over the crime scene. So the mates were buried.” 

Erica nodded, looking more serious than he'd ever seen her. “If we got their names, couldn't we compare their DNA to the tibia? It's still on file, right?” 

Stiles bit his lip to hide a smile. Look at Erica, being all helpful and breaking out her CSI expertise. He nodded as seriously as he was able—because it was a good idea, albeit one he'd already had—and agreed, “We'll do that. Do you know how Scott was contacted?” 

“Email? Phone? I don't know. Ask Allison.” 

Why did Allison have all the answers they needed? Head still reeling, Stiles was moving to stand, intending to drag Erica over to the Hale estate, when his father started up the stairs at a run. The moments seemed to stretch, almost unbearably. Something had happened. Obviously. The case had broken or someone had been hurt. His dad's sprint up the stairs was both hectic and glacial. When his dad finally arrived, panting slightly, Stiles demanded, “What?” 

“The light!” John cried. “The electrician says a wire was pried free, and the time frame is specific. Spoke to the guests myself. They say it was fine when they left, and it was broken an hour later when the maid showed up!” 

When John stopped to pant, Stiles demanded, “And?” 

“And the cameras were still up! It's almost out of frame, and just a split second, but we slowed it down and got an image. During the window of time the light was broken, Scott McCall was outside the motel!” 

Stiles nodded, huffing out a deep breath. This was either very good or very bad. But it sounded like the entire police department was in on the discovery. His father couldn't sit on this, not even if he wanted to. “Issue a warrant for his arrest.” 

Erica growled. “Stiles, no!” 

“Erica, if Scott didn't do this, you should pray the police find him first. If he's not already dead, every hunter and half your pack will want him dead by nightfall. Scott looks guilty as shit, and we need to find him now.”


	9. The C-Word

After briefing Derek and convincing him to arrest Scott if they found him, Stiles switched out his bullets for some of his dad's wolfsbane bullets, and motioned a frowning Erica toward the door. They needed to be at the Hale estate. He had any number of questions for Allison, and he wanted to see how people were reacting. More than that, a strange twinge was drawing him there, demanding he return to his pack—if they were his pack. He belonged to Derek, he knew that, but even Derek had referred to the others as pack, and that was enough for Stiles' wolf. It was a weird feeling, simultaneously suspecting most of them of murder and wanting to protect them, but … there it was. 

As he reached for the doorknob, Erica swatted his hand away and crowded him against the door. At his grumble, she said, “Don't make this weird.” 

Then she was sliding her jaw along his chin, grabbing for his wrists and rubbing them against her neck and face. Stiles went still, but it wasn't fear. Wasn't arousal either, even if she was all up in his space. It just felt … nice—right. 

Finally pulling away, Erica made a show of frowning, but Stiles noticed the tension had drained from her body. Lowering her head, she muttered, “Sorry. You needed to smell like pack. Derek's scent is fading, and everyone's instincts are fucked. You'll be safer, now. Okay?”

Something about her embarrassment had him reaching for her, his hand cupping and sliding down the curve of her neck. As Stiles watched, Erica's head tipped to the side, her neck bared for him. Flashing back to the bonfire, he remembered her doing the same. Then, he'd assumed it was a show, a sign of respect for Derek's mate. Now, judging by how quickly she jerked away and glared at him, Stiles realized it was instinct. 

“Do you think of Derek as your alpha?” Stiles asked. 

“Shut up!” She jerked the door open and stormed out, leaving Stiles to follow her. 

So, just a thought, but … Erica lures Derek back to town with murders, takes care of Scott, and Derek is the new alpha. Back down to 80 percent, then. But, really, if that was the case, Stiles had to be kept alive for Derek's safety, which left him sitting pretty and safe as houses. Derek, too. It'd be his favorite theory so far, except he liked Erica and would hate to arrest her. Shrugging, Stiles locked the door behind himself—his dad having left for the station—and climbed into the passenger seat of her car. 

Erica was still frowning as she reached for the key, then let her hand fall away. With a huff, she turned to him. “I've always loved Derek, okay? I loved Laura and I loved Derek, and they were pack. Compared to Derek, Scott is a little brother, not an alpha. But he's still a little brother. He's still pack. I wouldn't hurt Scott. And I wouldn't do what was done to Laura! Not to anyone. Finding her like that, even dead? Fuck, Stiles, I'm so glad she was dead. I had nightmares for months. I woke up screaming.” 

Holy fuck. Erica was crying. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he suspected manipulation. But that was mostly because the rest of him was frantic to make her stop. She smelled horrible. Not offensive, just gut-wrenchingly wrong. He flailed a little, uncomfortable and desperate. 

“Erica, please. It's okay.” 

“I couldn't even look at those pictures you have, okay? I never wanted to see that shit again.” She rubbed a hand across her eyes. “That's my nightmare. I wouldn't fucking recreate it. Play with it like it's fun. No one who loved Laura could do that! And I loved her.” 

 

Stiles reached for one of her waving hands and twined their fingers together. Dragging her hand against his chest, he wrapped an arm around it as she leaned toward him awkwardly. 

“I believe you, Erica, and I'm sorry. I'd hug you, but I'm kinda afraid you'd bite me.”

She sniffled, a hint of a laugh edging in at the end. “At least you don't think I'm a pussy.” 

He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Tens across the board, baby.” 

She leaned her forehead against his shoulder for just a second, and then was pulling herself upright and shaking the tension from her body. “Right. Enough caring and sharing. We've got a murderer to catch.” 

***

As they drove up to the Hale house, Stiles took in the scene and dropped his head to the dashboard. Just for a second. He'd deal in just a second. Erica was already snarling as she hit the gas pedal, sending the car screeching into the midst of another showdown. She was out of the car before the engine's growl quieted, and Stiles put on his big-boy pants and followed her. 

Jackson, Ethan, Danny, and Lydia were standing between Chris Argent and a crying Allison. Everyone else, apparently, was searching for Scott, or they'd have been there. Erica didn't hesitate, didn't ask questions, simply grabbed the back of Chris' jacket and jerked him backward, snarling into his face. 

“Okay, okay,” Stiles said, holding out his hands for peace. “What's going on here?” 

“Mind your own business!” Danny screamed at him. And tall! Looking at him now, in the absence of most of the wolves, he seemed more imposing. 

Erica growled, “Allison?” 

“Don't hurt my dad!” 

“Everyone knock it off!” Stiles yelled. 

Lydia whined quietly and Jackson turned on Stiles with a toothy snarl. Flinching back as his eyes pulsed and his gums ached, Stiles struggled for control. A rush of adrenaline sizzled through his body and he stopped fighting. Fangs sliced into the tender skin of his mouth and he let his mouth gape, the strange mouthful of fangs making his jaw feel heavy. 

“Knock it off,” he repeated, voice low in a snarl. 

Danny snorted. “Like we're going to listen to Derek's bitch. This much aggression in the air, your ass is probably wet.” 

Taken aback, he wrinkled his nose and asked, “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

Well, he'd gotten silence. That was something. Mostly, it ranged from embarrassed to dumbfounded. Until Lydia laughed. “He doesn't even know.” 

“He shouldn't be a wolf!” Ethan snarled. “This is all Scott's fault.” 

“Allison, you have to listen to me,” Chris said. “It's not safe for you here. Trust me, honey. I don't care where you go. I'll take you to a hotel. We'll get in the car and drive. I don't care. But you can't stay here.”

Allison was curled in on herself, sobbing. Still, she dragged her chin higher and cried, “Scott didn't do this!” 

“I believe you,” Chris said. “I really do, Allison. But it doesn't matter.” 

“This is my home!” 

Lydia moved to lay a hand on Allison's shoulder and whispered, “You should go. It's the alpha's home, and no one's going to be calling Scott 'Alpha' anymore. Go with your dad.” 

Allison pushed Lydia's hand away. “I'm pack!” 

Jackson growled. “They say he had an accomplice. A woman, probably. You don't want to be here when we start looking for the bitch.” 

Stiles frowned. “Who says? Where did you hear that?” 

Jackson glanced at Ethan, but shrugged his shoulders. “Everyone.” 

“Guys?” Allison quieted her sobs, looking between her friends for support. “Scott didn't do this. I didn't do this.” 

“Allison's not going anywhere,” Stiles said quietly. “She's sticking with me and Erica.” 

“God damn it!” Chris barked. “I'm getting my daughter out of this snake pit!” 

Stiles looked at Chris, trying to convey as much meaning as he could in his eyes. “You don't care where Allison goes? She goes where I go. You can stay by her side, if you want.” 

Erica snarled. “We can't have another Argent at the estate right now. Derek and Peter will lose their fucking minds.”

As his teeth shrank back to human, Stiles said, “Then they'll leave Hale land.” Meeting Allison's gaze, he offered, “Come home with me. To the sheriff's house.” 

“Stiles, that's not better!” Erica said. 

At the same time, Jackson yelled, “He's taking in Argents! And this is Derek's choice of mate!” 

“Allison?” Stiles asked. 

She hesitated long enough that Chris ordered, “Go pack a bag, sweetheart.”

“And bring your laptops,” Stiles added. 

Head hanging, Allison turned and walked into the house. Everyone else stood vigil, Erica grudgingly shifting from glowering at Chris to standing beside him. Jackson was growling, his fangs still threatening Stiles and Chris in turns. When Allison returned several minutes later, Stiles nodded her toward Erica's car and said to Chris, “Follow us.” 

As he got into the passenger seat, he heard Jackson say quietly, “This is why Derek can't be alpha.” 

Ethan answered, “He won't be.” 

***

The car ride was silent. And not in a comfortable way. Erica was obviously steaming, and Allison's murderous glare was broken only by occasional hiccups. Stiles had tried to call Derek twice, both with no success. Finally, he texted, “I took Allison and Chris back to my place. Don't trust anyone at the estate right now!” 

The minute he got Chris and Allison inside the front door, Erica said, “Stiles, I need to talk to you.” 

Nodding dejectedly, he gestured Chris and Allison toward the kitchen. “Make some coffee if you want. There's beer in the fridge.” 

Allison reached out and touched his shoulder, her face crumbling when Erica snarled. She whispered, “Thank you, Stiles.” 

“Just help yourself. Make a sandwich. Whatever you need.” 

Fuck. He was starving. He shouldn't have mentioned food. Is this what being a werewolf meant? Endless hunger? No wonder they were all so growly. 

Letting his mind circle on that thought, he followed Erica to the living room. They both waited a moment, listening to Allison and Chris putter around the kitchen, Chris making coffee. Satisfied they were distracted and not planning an immediate attack, Erica turned on him with a glare. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” 

“We need to know how Scott communicated with the mates, right? We need to know if Scott has an alibi for one of the murders. We need to know how the killers got alpha blood. And, if Scott can get away or is free, he's likely to come for Allison. We've got her. This is smart.” 

His words seemed to bring Erica up short for a moment, but she shook all his logic aside and said, “Do I need to repeat myself? Derek is going to lose his fucking mind.” 

“Yeah, well, Derek's not the boss of me.” 

“Yes! He is!” Erica yelled. “Right now, he's the only alpha we've got. Derek is the boss of everyone!” 

Stiles snorted. “He's not the boss of me. Now, come on, we need to get in there. Just, chill out.” 

He walked away even as Erica bellowed, “Did you just tell me to chill out? This is why Derek bit you!”

Nah. This was why Derek threatened to bite him. Derek bit him because Stiles gave him permission. Thus, not the boss of him. He held firm to that distinction as he walked back into the kitchen. Chris was nudging a cup of coffee closer to Allison, her chin angled away from it with a scowl. And at least he wasn't an Argent. There was always that. 

Seeing him, Chris stood. “I'm not staying.” 

Gee, twist his arm. Stiles nodded and said, “Okay.” Then, feeling obliged, he offered, “You could, though.” 

“I wanted Allison safe. This is as close as I'm going to get.” He gave his daughter a last, regretful look. “There's more I could be doing at home. You should know, people aren't happy about Kate's murder. If they can't find Scott, they'll find someone.” 

Pushing down a surge of adrenaline, Stiles said, “Most of these wolves are innocent.” Granted, he didn't know which ones, but most were. “If your people hurt them, you will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.” 

Chris snorted. “I know.” 

“I'm an agent in the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit,” Stiles said. “One phone call and I'll have your hunters charged with everything from domestic terrorism to tax evasion. You get me? Your dentist will be called in for questioning.” 

“Stilinski,” Chris said, meeting his gaze, “I know. I'm doing my best.” 

Stiles jerked his chin toward the door. “Do better.” 

Leaving, Chris looked like he had the world on his shoulders. And he did. His world, anyway. Stiles didn't envy him being the only beacon of sanity and prudence in a sea of hate, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. He had Derek's world on his shoulders. 

When he looked toward Allison, she was staring his way. “I thought you were a paper pusher.” 

In practice, yeah, probably. But no one needed to know this was his first field assignment, so he shrugged. “I'm undercover. But the cover was to earn access to the pack. I am pack, so I'm not undercover anymore.” 

Yay, for split second decisions. Honestly, though, it was a long time coming. Now, he could call people in for questioning. Now, he could walk into the police station and demand resources. Or, he could until the FBI heard about it—but this was one of those 'beg forgiveness' scenarios you always hear about. Right? Whatever. 

He was trying to save lives. If the FBI didn't like it, they could fuck themselves sideways for all Stiles cared. He could be a professor. A cop. Write some books, maybe. He'd be fine. 

His palm found its way to his face. He wasn't sure how, but it didn't stay there long. Just one deep breath and his shoulders were squared, the future a distant thought once again.

“The point is,” he said to Allison, “I've got some questions for you.” 

Half an hour later, Stiles had the email address and correspondence history of the mated wolves, Allison's begrudging admittance that not even she could alibi Scott for most of the murders because he ran late-night patrols of the preserve, and her hysterical laughter when asked to account for any blood Scott might have lost. 

After calling in the email address to his tech guy—requesting names, addresses, and a shot-in-the-dark confirmation for DNA on file—Stiles found himself sitting at the kitchen table, mind blank. 

Glancing toward Erica, he asked, “Now what?” 

“Now, you eat.” 

“Hell yeah!” 

He spent longer than he should have drooling over the take-out menu, and then dropped more money than he should have ordering. Not that he was thinking about that—he was rubbing his hands together and cackling, actually—and not that he couldn't afford it—when you went nowhere and did nothing you ended up with a sizable surplus each month, even on an FBI salary. But, he didn't get that surplus spending a hundred bucks to feed three people. Four! His dad. Obviously, he'd ordered something for his dad … okay, he could have whatever was left … that wasn't deep fried. Admittedly, that diminished the choices. 

Because, onion rings! 

“If you get any happier, I'm gonna need a hand check,” Erica muttered. 

Allison lowered her head. “I remember when Scott was new. He'd eat and eat.” Voice breaking, she sobbed, “He's probably hungry now.” 

And there went his onion-ring boner. 

Morosely flipping the page on the notebook he'd used to organize his order, Stiles stared at a blank sheet of paper. He wanted to work. Really, he did. He even wrote, “Aiden” on top in big letters, but his mind seemed to contain nothing but white noise. 

“Derek!” Stiles exclaimed. 

Erica's head snapped up. “I don't hear him.” 

“No. I need Derek. Or, you know, the Derek substitute.” He sighed. “I need the tee shirt on my bed. God, I'm a druggie, now. I need my fix, or I can't even think.” 

This seemed to pose a serious existential dilemma for Erica. Her gaze darted between Allison, the front door, the ceiling, Stiles, and back to Allison. Then she frowned and went still, like a broken toy. 

Stiles stood. “I'm just gonna go get it. Okay?” 

Still frowning, Erica stood, but nodded. “You've got thirty seconds. Run!” 

And in those seconds, he tried not to compare himself to a dog. Because he did run. He ran and he liked it. Darting around the doorway and taking the steps in leaps and bounds, marveling over the agility in his new body, was—sadly—the most fun he'd had all day. Bag in hand, he slid back into the kitchen and demanded, “Time?” 

“I didn't time you, jackass.” 

“But....” He looked at Allison, realized there was no place for even thirty seconds of fun, and sank into his chair with a pout. Beneath his breath, he muttered, “I totally made it.” 

Unzipping the first two bags, he took a deep hit and leaned back in his chair. Oh, yeah. That was the stuff. He almost held the bag out to Erica, as if she might like a little sniff. In the end, what stopped him wasn't the realization that it would be crazy, but a sudden surge of possessiveness that made him want to zip the bags again—so she didn't get even a peripheral sniff of his mate. Fighting the feelings back, he reached behind himself to set the bags on the kitchen counter and focused on getting his head right. 

“So,” he prompted, “Aiden.” 

Erica growled, seemingly without her consent. Pursing her lips, she asked, “What about him?” 

“Aiden's the deviation. He's the victim the killers needed dead. The three of us need to figure out why.” 

Erica grumbled, “Is that all?” 

But Allison leaned forward in her chair, face a mask of determination. “Then let's do it. We need to clear Scott. So he can come home if … when he's found.” 

Stiles knew blind hope when he heard it, but he nodded hard in agreement. “I should have done this earlier. I'm sorry. I don't know anything. Who did Aiden live with?” 

Allison motioned for the pen and slid the notebook before her. She made a quick map of the estate, showing who lived where. Sliding it back, she said, “Aiden lived with Ethan and Danny.” 

“And because Team Stiles doesn't deserve a break, smack dab between Peter and Jackson's cabins.” Stiles laughed, couldn't help it. “So, down the hall from a guy whose internet history could get him on a watch list, beside Peter, who everyone suspects, and beside Jackson, who I'm coming to suspect is a giant toolbag. That's, just, so helpful.” 

“Jackson's not that bad,” Erica said. 

“It seems pretty likely that someone in the pack is killing people. Looking at the people who 'aren't that bad' is what we law enforcement types call a no-brainer.” 

The statement earned him a dead arm. Even as he rubbed at it, eyeing Erica balefully, she said, “Well, if Jackson's killing people, Lydia told him to. He might be a dick, but he's not a genius.” 

Allison picked at her chipping fingernail polish and muttered, “Lydia's my friend.” 

“Hey, Allison?” Erica said. “Remember that time Lydia turned on Scott in like two seconds and kicked you out of your house?” 

“Lydia's a cunt.”

Stiles didn't know where to look. He wasn't allowed to say that word. Not that he hung out with enough women to be totally sure, but he was pretty sure. Swallowing, he said, “Well, that escalated, you know, not slowly.” 

Allison's eyes lit up. “I saw that bitch steal my Vampire Bite nail polish! And when I asked for it back, she said she never took it.” 

With a one-shouldered shrug, Stiles exclaimed, “That bitch!” 

Then Allison was hitting him. And, “What the fuck? Violent!” He felt his eyes pulse, though he wasn't sure why, exactly, and then he was ranting, “I haven't seen Derek all damn day, and I'm busting my ass for you people! So, stop fucking hitting me!”

Looking around with wide eyes as the silence stretched, Stiles opened his mouth several times only to snap it closed again. He whispered, “Sorry. I don't know—”

“Like I was saying,” Allison started. 

“Spazz,” Erica added. 

“Scott was right there when she said it, and he believed her. Said he couldn't hear the lie. But I saw her take it.” 

“Oh.” Stiles let the meaning sink it. “Oh! She can lie to werewolves.” 

Allison said, “I think she can.” 

Exchanging a look with Erica, Stiles said, “So, Lydia.” 

She nodded. “Lydia.” 

***

Stiles was lying on the kitchen floor, both totally satisfied and deeply sickened by himself—a surviving onion ring balanced on his chest, for desert—when he heard a car pull up, and then Derek's voice. His chest did this weird somersault, which was unfortunate, because it was way too close to his aching belly. But it happened. Never mind that Derek bypassed all pleasantries and started bitching. 

“Is Chris Argent in there?” Derek demanded. 

Stiles smiled. “Nah. Just Allison and Erica. Chris left to keep the peace.” 

“Keeping the peace? Not something you know anything about, is it? Jesus, Stiles!” 

He stretched and popped the last onion ring into his mouth. Still chewing, he announced, “I missed you.” 

A small silence fell, followed by Derek's grudging, “I missed you, too.” 

“You're still my favorite.” 

“Gag me,” Erica muttered. “No one wants to hear this shit.” 

Swinging for her leg half-heartedly, Stiles gave up with a whine and instead asked Derek, “Why do you keep forgetting I'm a genius?” 

“Gee—”

“Rhetorical! Allison got me an email address for the mates. Oh, shit. You're so behind.” He quickly caught Derek up. “And my tech guy is getting names and addresses, and fingers crossed, some DNA. Also, we think Lydia can lie to werewolves, and she is, apparently, the c-word. She's my new mastermind suspect. All thanks to Allison.” 

Derek hummed and Stiles wanted the weight of Derek's body on top of him so badly he could taste it. Then he said, “Isaac and I found Scott.” 

Stiles jerked upright. “What? Where? Is he okay?” He cast a quick glance at Allison, who looked both horrified and hopeful, spontaneous tears slipping down her cheeks.

“More or less.” At Erica's growl, Derek said, “He's fine. Physically unhurt, anyway.” 

“Scott is alive and unhurt!” Erica said. 

And then Allison was sobbing, her head in her hands. 

“Is he with my dad?” Stiles asked. 

“No.” Derek's voice hardened. “We let him go.” 

“What?” Stiles bellowed. “You … why? I'm an FBI agent. You can't just … and my dad! Fuck, Derek!” 

“Baby, they would have thrown away the key. Stopped looking. Scott can't remember anything. The last thing he remembers is going out to patrol. Then he came back to himself with hunters on his ass. He found us, and he was so relieved. He had no idea.” Derek took a deep breath. “I believe him and I let him go. Told him to hide. Told him where to hide. And, no, Stiles, I won't tell you.”

What the shit? He snorted. “I hope you made better money than I did, because my ass is getting fired.” 

Derek chuckled—mostly, Stiles felt, because he was a dick. “No one's getting fired.” 

“I'd fire the shit out of me! I'm being very bad!” 

Allison slammed her hand down on the table. “What's happening?” 

“My mate's a dick!” Stiles announced. Then quickly added, “Scott is hiding until we find the real killer, apparently. If he did this—”

“He didn't!” Allison promised. 

Stiles finished, “We're so fucked.” 

Erica nudged his leg with her boot, met his gaze, and said, “Scott didn't do this.” 

Arms thrown wide, Stiles said, “Whatever. Team Stiles no longer operates by the rule of law. Team Stiles is full of vigilantes and liars. It's fine.” 

“God, I can't believe he's okay,” Allison said, grinning. “Thank you all. I was afraid … thank you.” 

Stiles dragged himself to his feet and pulled a plate from the cabinet. Adding bits and pieces from the many, many containers of leftovers, he didn't stop until the plate was heaping. Then handed it to Erica. “Run this out to my idiot mate, would you?” 

Erica rolled her eyes at him, but grinned. Apparently satisfied that Allison didn't pose an immediate threat, she did as he bid. Stiles lowered himself into a chair, feeling accomplished to have made it off the floor. 

To Derek, he muttered, “I popped my first fang, today. Also, what's this about a wet ass?” 

Derek choked around a mouthful of food as Erica returned, and hedged, “I'm eating, baby. Later.” 

“Later I'm going to kick your unfairly dry ass? Yeah. Check.” 

Beside Derek's snort, silence fell for long minutes as he ate. It felt good. Both because Allison was filling the kitchen with a weirdly wonderful scent and because Stiles' heart was warm and satisfied knowing his mate was eating. He listened to every bite and swallow, somehow proud. Proud of his ability to order take out. Werewolves were strange. 

When Derek sighed, content, Stiles ached for him. He wanted to see Derek, smell Derek, taste and feel Derek, hear the boom of his voice. He reached behind himself and grabbed the bag, unzipping the final bag. He shoved his nose inside and inhaled deeply. When he closed the zipper, it wasn't because he feared the scent was too strong, but because he didn't want the food diluting it. 

“I know I said this already, and nothing sexual, 'cause I've got an audience and Erica will hit me again, but I want you so bad. I just … you. I want you.” 

His mate's response was, “Erica hit you?” 

Stiles' laugh was laced with a whimper. “Fuck, Derek. You.” 

“Want my shirt, baby? I ran all day. It's soaked with my sweat.” 

He groaned, instantly hard. Even as Erica sputtered her indignation, Stiles said, “I need it.” 

Derek hummed and Stiles felt himself go lax with utter contentment. “It's yours. Now, sorry, sweetheart, but what's the plan? Lydia, you said?”

Pulling himself back to task, Stiles willed down his erection—failed—and soldiered on anyway. “You and Isaac outside Lydia's cabin. Tonight would be a great time for another murder, and I need to know if she moves.” 

“Consider it done.” 

Stiles looked to Erica and nodded her toward the door. “Go get the shirt.” 

Glaring, she grumbled, “You owe me so big.”


	10. A Jackson Pollock

Stiles blinked awake slowly, the sun still shy in the sky. His first thought was for himself. He'd slept in Derek's shirt, the one that had been in a bag—three, specifically. But he felt amazing. His cock was a little harder than morning wood could account for, but who could blame him? The moment he'd realized what he'd been missing all his life, just how good sex could be, his hand had been slapped back and his mind left to circle and yearn. But other than a perfectly justified level of lust, he felt perfect. 

Then the stampede of sound that had woken him registered. Second by second, his happiness disappeared. It wasn't even light out and his dad was tripping over himself to get dressed. Something horrible had happened. There had been another murder. 

He heard the creak of plastic as Erica rose from the blow-up mattress downstairs, beside the couch where Allison had slept. As much as any of them had slept—his mind tallied up the hours, tallied up the hours he'd worked nonstop yesterday, and proclaimed him put out and abused.

Trying to convince his mind that he was a werewolf now, and werewolves didn't need stupid human comforts like rest and relaxation, he forced himself out of bed and joined the symphony of hastily donned clothing. 

He got his pants on none-too-soon, his dad bursting through the door and announcing, “There's been another murder!” 

“Find an ID?” Stiles asked. 

“I don't think so. A paper boy called the tip in, another rental. 106 Harris Street. Car leaves in five.”

And wasn't that a flashback? But nostalgia could wait. He needed to hear Derek's voice. Because either their theory was wrong, or Lydia had gotten past Derek—which wouldn't have happened peacefully. Even as his mind conquered images of his strong and able mate, alternate images of Derek, dead and mutilated, invaded his mind. By the second ring, his fingers were shaking. 

“Stiles?” 

“Derek! Thank fuck.” He took a second to breathe into the phone, his eyes pulsing as the wolf roused. “There's been a murder.”

“Fuck!” He heard the scramble of Derek jerking on clothes. “I just turned surveillance over to Isaac, damn it, an hour ago.” 

“No activity?” 

“She screamed like a pornstar for two hours and fell asleep. Jackson, too.”

He groaned deeply, most of his focus on not smashing his phone into itty-bitty pieces. People who flew into fits and broke shit had never really impressed him. Reminded him of childish tantrums, really, but he'd like to break something now. 

“Meet me at 106 Harris,” he finally said. “I'll ramble about suspects again later.”

“Stiles....” Derek sighed. “I'll see you there. Miss you.” 

“Miss you, too.”

***

Erica followed them in her own car, and Stiles spent the trip rehashing the case and yearning for coffee. He needed those blood splatter reports. He'd been so sure they suggested a small person. But if it wasn't Lydia, and Allison and Erica spent the night at his place … Scott was the next smallest pack member, wasn't he? Or was Stiles totally off? Was he chasing ghosts while the real killer was a stranger who had hacked into Scott's email to get at the mates—were they even the right mates?—and found the potpourri recipe online somewhere? Either way, he was getting sick and tired of chasing his tail. 

When they arrived, he traded a here-we-go-again look with his dad and forced himself from the cruiser. Feet barely beneath him, he smelled it. And the world threatened to upend and put him on his ass. Blood. There was blood everywhere. Not everywhere. Not really. Just splattered across the sidewalk and the house's pathway like a fucked up Jackson Pollock painting. And the scent.... 

He didn't know how long he stood there, staring, motionless. Long enough for his dad to reach for him. Long enough for Erica to arrive. Because she was howling. Features twisted into her beta-form, her head was thrown back. Horrible, mournful sounds escaped, and Stiles felt his own fangs descend. He barely stopped himself from joining her. But no!

He ran for her, not meaning to and having no plan. Slamming into her, they both jolted against the side of her car. She pushed at him, mindless and uncoordinated, and all Stiles could do was wrap both hands around her mouth and beg for silence. 

“He's going to hear! Don't make Derek hear!” 

That's all he could think about. Derek. His mate's pain. Stiles' mind cycled through strange, irrational ways he could hide this. Like it was a broken family heirloom instead of a dead body. 

Erica finally gathered the presence of mind to shove him away, her knees giving out immediately. Clutching at herself, she looked up at him through tear-strained eyes and demanded, “Make sure! Stiles, you have to.” 

Nodding numbly, he forced himself to turn and put one foot in front of the other. Everyone was quiet. Staring. He watched his feet as he moved, saw the claws on his dangling hands, and realized he was in full beta-form. 

This is what the killer wanted, Stiles thought. The killer wanted them crazed. Wanted the smell of fear, pain, and blood thick on the air. Of dead wolf. Dead pack. 

Following the path cleared for police use, he came to the side door. His knees locked—just for a second—but he forced his chin high and marched inside. Then the second scent hit him and he was growling, the sound uncontrollable and rolling, long and persistent, in his throat. Lie. It was a lie. Had to be a lie. But it took every ounce of control he had not to careen from the house and hunt. He smelled Scott. Not Scott's blood. Scott, the killer. The betrayer. Betrayer of pack. 

And then he was in the kitchen, vaguely aware of everyone falling silent. There, that thing … that thing on the table with Peter's hair. That mutilated husk. Peter. 

He hadn't been sure he liked the guy—liked him more, now. Because Peter hadn't been the killer. Peter had brought him Derek's sweatshirt when he was losing his mind, and Peter had stopped showering to prove he wouldn't hurt pack, and Peter had dropped everything to research Stiles' problem. And Peter had never been the killer. 

Stiles wanted to say something. Wanted to look and see and think. Instead, he turned without a word and left the house. He knew he wasn't allowed this reaction. Couldn't let the killer get what they wanted. Had to be stronger than this. 

But all he really had to do was wait. Derek would be here soon.

As he waited, his heart pounded faster and faster. And that's when he realized … the killer hadn't used potpourri. He was about to be face to face with Derek, the nasty goo left abandoned on his dresser. His mate's heart was about to break, and Stiles couldn't trust his body not to react with lust. 

Pressing the back of his hand against his mouth, he tried to fight down the ugly lurch and roll of his stomach. It wouldn't happen … he could tolerate Derek's tee shirt. And he'd try. Try so much harder than he did before. He wouldn't let it happen. 

“Erica!” he bellowed, finding her at his side before he could turn. 

If he expected to find her teary-eyed, he was mistaken. All semblance of grief had been replaced by a cold, hard mask of rage. His body swayed backward, but he aborted the retreat to stand firm. 

“If I go crazy from Derek's scent, you have to take care of him. Don't let him hit any cops, and don't let him kill anyone. Okay, Erica? Don't let him out of your sight.”

She didn't blink. Didn't smile or argue. Simply stared at him with murder in her eyes and intoned, “Okay.” 

He remembered her confession of nightmares. Realized Derek wasn't the only one who had lost Laura, and moved to embrace her. At the last second, he stepped around her body and plastered his chest to her back. Maybe it was instinct, or simply common sense, but he couldn't force himself to draw her face to his neck. Instead, he pressed his forehead to the nape of her neck and encircled her body in a tight hug. 

“I'm so sorry.” 

Her hand came up to clutch at his forearm, and he expected tears then. But what he got instead was, “It's time to start killing people.” 

“Erica, no.” 

Her body didn't so much as twitch. The emotionless drone of her voice mirrored it as she said, “I'll start with Jackson and Lydia. Then Ethan and Danny. All we need is Boyd and Isaac. Derek, Boyd, Isaac, you, and me. Maybe Scott and Allison. That's all we need.” 

He rubbed his nose up and down the curve of nape, petting in the only way he could. His grip, now, felt less like comfort and more like necessity. He whispered, “Shh, you're in shock.” 

“No. It's time. This isn't happening to us. Not to any of us. I'll make sure.” 

Stiles grit his teeth, even more determined to keep his sanity. If he lost it, Erica would help Derek, all right. Help him slaughter half the pack. The fucked up part? It was the best idea he'd heard in days. He'd kill four people to keep Derek safe. To keep them all safe. He'd rip their throats out with his teeth. 

The instant his scent started to resemble Erica's, he pushed the thoughts away viciously. He couldn't greet Derek smelling like bloodlust and vengeance. He couldn't. He had to handle this. 

Dragging every ounce of steel he possessed into his voice, Stiles growled against her neck and finally got the twitch he'd been waiting for. “No! You hear me? Don't you fucking dare! No one else is going to die. We'll sleep in a heap until this gets solved. We'll circle the wagons. And I will solve this! The monster responsible will go to jail. Not you! Do you hear me? You start killing people and you will go to jail. How will Boyd feel then? Huh? Isaac?” 

“Alive.” 

Going on pure instinct, he grabbed the nape of her neck and squeezed. When he spoke, his voice vibrated in his ears, “You will abandon this plan.” 

Writhing beneath his grip, Erica whined, “Stiles.” 

“You will abandon this plan!” 

A low growl rolled in her throat, but then her neck fell to the side in slow inches. With a final snarl, she whispered, “Fine.” 

Suddenly feeling awkward and horrible, he embraced her in another hug. He wanted to whisper ridiculous words about this hurting him more than her, or apologize, but he did neither. And, strangely enough, she relaxed back against him, her head rolling back to rest on his shoulder. 

They were still standing like that when Derek arrived. Stiles had heard the car coming, part of him wanting to intersect Derek and save his mate the heartbreak of smelling, of seeing. He knew Derek better than that, though. Knew this wasn't something he could hide or lessen. This was a hurricane. You could either up and run, leaving everything you loved behind, or brace yourself and ride out the storm.

And by the look on his mate's face, it was going to be a hell of a storm. Eyes flashing red, Derek looked from them to the blood-splattered sidewalk, his nostrils flaring. His roar split the air, making Stiles' knees weak and his neck fall to the side on pure instinct. 

Baring his fangs at the milling cops, he slammed a hand against the car's roof and ordered, “Get to the estate. Now!” 

Stiles reached for him even as Derek jumped in the car. An instant later, the car was screeching out, undoubtedly drawing the attention of every cop. Not one moved to followed. 

“Fuck!” He grabbed Erica's wrist and ran for her car, heart pounding. He didn't mean to push her toward the passenger door. Really, he didn't. But he did. Slamming the driver's side door, he demanded, “Keys!”

Once in his hands, it took three tries to get them in the ignition, Stiles cussing a blue streak all the while. His hand trembled when he turned the key. Too hard. The car made a guttural grinding sound, but finally turned over. 

Then the door jerked open and his dad snapped, “I'm driving.”

Groaning, he threw himself between the partition and into the backseat, landing in an awkward sprawl. His dad, apparently understanding the situation as well as Stiles did—not difficult, perhaps, given the only thing he truly understood was the pulsing sound of panic in his head—followed Derek without another word. 

“Let me handle this, dad!” 

John said nothing. 

“Shit! Shit, this is bad. No, no, it's fine. Derek's a reasonable person. A professional. It's gonna be fine.” 

From the passenger seat, Erica announced, “He'll kill them.” 

And then she smiled. 

“Dad?” Stiles asked. “Dad, what am I supposed to do?” 

“I'm supposed to keep you safe, Stiles.” His dad's hands tightened on the wheel. “The rest is up to you.” 

Head bowed, he whispered, “Derek will stay in control. He won't leave me.” 

“Derek's taking control!” Erica shouted. “We're not humans! When something threatens pack, we destroy the threat. Derek should have had every wolf on their knees, submitting, a week ago. You want control? Let your mate be a fucking alpha and handle this!” 

“Erica, that's not—”

“And don't you dare contradict him! If Derek has to fight, if he has to kill to protect you, you get down on your knees and thank God you're not Aiden, or Peter, or one of those dumb ass humans.” 

“Just because we're werewolves—”

“You try telling me about werewolves, and I'm 'a lose my shit!” 

Snarling, he turned his head to the window and fumed. The silence lasted all of ten seconds before he demanded, “I'm sorry, what? Did I not drown in the stench of blood and death, just like you? Am I not sitting here with the sight of Peter's mangled body burned into my retinas? Right now, all that being a werewolf means—”

“Stiles—”

“Stop interrupting me! I might be new, but I ran headfirst into this shit storm, didn't I? Peter is dead! Am I crying? No! Am I in the arms of the man I love? Hell no! I'm trying to prevent a god damn mass murder! I'm pulling my weight here, okay? I'm being a team player and soldiering on, smiling like an idiot as I work all day, every day, my body and mind betraying me! So crawl out of my fucking ass!”

“Stiles! Damn it, watch your mouth!” John slammed a hand against the steering wheel. “You kids put a sock in it and let me drive!” 

In retrospect, Stiles wasn't sure when he started yelling or why. He wanted to blame it on the full moon, or his transition. Wanted to blame it on nerves and his god-awful morning. Thumping his head against the window, he said, “Sorry.” 

Erica turned to look at him. “Me, too.” 

He nodded and silence fell. It didn't lift even as they pulled into the estate. Or, they didn't break it. Derek had driven his rental car onto the grassy expanse between the cabins, and stood with his hand on the horn—the ceaseless, obnoxious noise filling the air. Already, Boyd and Isaac had joined him, and Jackson was stumbling his way toward them, Lydia in tow. Danny and Ethan were lagging, both men looking annoyed and resentful, but marching forward anyway. After a morning that had seemed to last days, it was hard to believe the sun was barely up. That people might have been sleeping. Clearly, though, they had been. 

As he joined the amassing group, he spared a glance for the others—almost surprised to see no one had blood on their hands. Not yet, anyway. If the challenging expressions on half their faces translated to words and deeds, he wasn't sure it would say that way.

When everyone had arrived—Stiles' dad staying silent behind him—Derek finally released the horn and slammed the door. Then he yelled, “Peter's dead!”

“What?” Isaac asked, a hand going to his throat. “Oh, Derek, I'm—”

“And the scene reeked of Scott.” 

“I knew it!” Jackson cried. 

Derek snarled, exposing long, dangerous fangs. “I put Scott in protective custody yesterday. He's been under constant surveillance. But the scene reeks of Scott. Do you know what that tells me?”

The cold violence of Derek's tone made Stiles' balls retract. Taking cover, he'd wager. Too bad the rest of his body was stuck out here in the open. His balls had the right idea. 

“It tells me, one of you,” he nodded to the group, eyes flashing red, “wants his alpha status. You wanted us to hunt him down, or me to disclose his location. You made a show of it, blood all over the sidewalk. You tried to break me.” 

Oh, shit. He had to remind himself that Derek loved him and wouldn't hurt him. He was on the right side, here. He had nothing to fear from Derek's murderous glare. 

“You miscalculated. Because I'm the alpha, now. You will all submit to me, and if you want the title, you will come through me. You will drop your cowardice and step forward to battle me, like a wolf. And I will kill you. Please, show yourself, and let me kill you. Or, kneel.” He growled. “Now.” 

Erica was the first on her knees, followed by Isaac and Boyd. Stiles' dad stepped backward, as if he could escape the circle of obedience, but Stiles knew he'd kneel if he had to. 

Jackson stepped forward, “You can't come in here, growling and threatening—”

“Kneel!” Derek roared. “Kneel or fight. This is my land, my home, my pack. None of you could have taken Peter! You poisoned him, like a coward, and tore him the fuck apart. Take responsibility and stand. Take responsibility and fight! Please. I don't like you. I don't trust you. Raise a hand, and let's be done with it.” 

“It was Scott!” Ethan yelled. “Or Peter. You killed Peter, so you could do this.” He looked to the other wolves desperately. “Stand up! We decide who rules us. We decide, and they become alpha. If we need to....” He met Derek's gaze with a sneer. “We could take him.” 

Derek flashed his fangs. “Try.” 

“It should be me,” Jackson cried. “Laura always said … it should be me. He abandoned us.” 

“Try,” Derek repeated, his knees bending as he readied for a fight. 

“I'm not going to fight you!” Jackson screamed. “You're a professional killer. That doesn't make you our alpha!”

“A coward killed Peter.” Derek jerked his chin into the air. “You sound like a coward to me.” 

Ethan yelled, “No one killed Peter!” 

“He's dead!” 

“You'll get bored,” Jackson sneered. “Just like before. You'll leave, and I'll be alpha. But I didn't do this.” 

He sank to his knees as Lydia hissed. Then Ethan was the only wolf standing, his courage leaving him quickly. With a final glance around the clearing, he bared his teeth and sank to his knees. 

Derek glared at the humans. “Now you.” 

Lydia snorted. “I don't know what you think you're proving.” She made a grand curtsy, hand waving in the air, and sank to her knees, muttering, “Oh, alpha, my alpha.” 

Derek strode forward, until he stood before her. “You're here because I suspect you. You're here, because I'm watching you. Both of you.” He looked to Danny, who hadn't submitted. “You want to be pack, you're pack. On your knees, or I will kill you. Or admit what you've done and see if your wolf stands beside you.” 

Danny muttered, “Damn, man, relax,” and plopped onto the ground cross-legged. 

“Really? You'll continue to lie and scheme?” Derek demanded, glaring at each person. “So be it. You want the alpha status. You come through me.” 

Glancing behind himself at Stiles, Derek widened his eyes in question. Oh! Lowering himself to sit at Derek's feet, Stiles' reached out to pet his thigh. Derek's hand lowered to caress his hair, but he didn't break his verbal stride. 

“There will be changes. You see, this is my fault.” 

Stiles grimaced. He'd been in the FBI long enough to know any speech beginning with “this is my fault” ended with a long list of ways the subordinates hadn't been tortured enough. Sure enough, Derek didn't stop there. 

“I'm the only one here who knows what a pack looks like, and this isn't it. Pack comes together in a crisis. You separated. Pack doesn't lie to each other. You bitch and scheme. Even I'm guilty.” He nodded toward Stiles. “The time for deception is over. The time for plots and tricks. Stiles and I are here with the full backing of the United States government. Stiles is a profiler with the FBI, and he's smart. Smarter than I am, and smarter than you. If you've done this and you think you've gone unnoticed, think again. We're watching you.” 

He felt himself blush, but then Derek was talking again—outlining their case. He told everyone about the mates they suspected to be dead, told everyone about the potpourri, and told everyone about the blood splatter and their suspicions of two killers. 

“If you've seen something, or heard something, that seems odd now, you come to us. From here on out, everyone is responsible for everyone else. We are a pack, but we are a broken pack. We have every reason to suspect the killers are among us, and we won't lose another member of this pack. Until the murders are solved, everyone is staying in the Hale house. No one leaves alone, and no one leaves without signing out. I'll have all of your keys, and I'll be checking your odometers every day. There will be cameras at each door, and everyone's scent will be monitored. There will be no more murders. We will find those responsible for killing Aiden, for killing Peter. If you don't like it, you've got twenty-four hours to leave California.” 

In the stunned silence that followed, Stiles leaned against Derek's thigh. It was a good plan. A brilliant plan. Derek had taken control without killing anyone. Of course he had. There was a reason they were mates, after all. For the first time, he noticed Derek's scent and felt his body respond. Instead of panicking, he felt proud. Proud of Derek, proud of himself, and proud of their bond. 

“You've got an hour,” Derek declared. “Pack a bag, clean out your refrigerators, and get to the house. You're on lock down.”


	11. Let's Talk About Sex ... Baby

Stiles stood outside the Hale house with his dad, watching the wolves migrate inside. Obviously, some looked happier about it than others. Danny and Ethan were already inside. Their intention had been to get a good room, but Derek had ordered everyone to stay in the living room. Jackson and Lydia hadn't shown their faces since storming away, but their voices carried. 

“Just throw it away! Jackson! It's covered in fucking ice crystals!” 

“Then don't eat it! More for me.” 

“Ice cream is supposed to be creamy, you moron!” 

“Your bitch fit and my ice cream are not related, Lydia!” 

Derek stood on the porch, silent and imposing—unflinching as glass shattered in Jackson's cabin. He looked … well, Stiles kinda wanted to climb him like a tree, or drop to his knees and—

“Guess you didn't have anything to worry about,” his dad said. 

“Guess I didn't.” He couldn't help but look back at Derek, somewhat afraid his eyes had transformed into little beating hearts without his say so. “Everything will be okay, now.” 

His dad snorted. “You've got a little drool there, kid.” 

Ducking his head, Stiles muttered, “Stop.” 

“Okay.” John laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles, the warmth falling from his expression in an instant. “I'll get Allison and your bags, drop them off, and then it's back to the station for me. Busy day.” 

Resenting the intrusion of reality, Stiles grudgingly dragged his mind back to point. “I'm still waiting on the saw measurements, and the other thing. You know, the other thing?” He glanced around the yard, but … werewolves. Thankfully, his dad nodded, so Stiles didn't have to convey “warming plate” through his, admittedly rusty, Charades skills. And, yeah, he was breaking Derek's full-disclosure policy, but he was actively trying to nail Danny to a wall. Those kind of details were best kept under wraps, for now. “If I hear back about the mates, I'll let you know.” 

“If we can find those bodies....” John sighed wistfully. “Maybe I can spare someone to dig through the unsolved case files.”

As Stiles opened his mouth, he heard Lydia scream, “Don't shut the door!” 

“I know how to defrost a fucking refrigerator! I went to college, too! You want to help? Stop screaming and get a fucking towel!” 

Eyes wide, Stiles met his dad's raised eyebrows and shook his head. He didn't want to know. “Anyway, yeah. Unsolved case files. Good idea. I might have some names for you. I'll call after I check my email.” Running a hand over his face, Stiles whispered, “I'll need the crime-scene photos, too.” 

John darted a quick glance toward Derek and nodded. “All right. I'll talk to you later, kiddo. Be careful.” 

“You too, Dad.” 

***

With everyone gathered silently in the living room, Derek paced before them, casting an unimpressed gaze toward those sitting. Clearly, in his mind, this was a stand-at-attention moment. The entire vibe was very military, from Derek's upthrust chin to his hands linked behind his back. A general addressing his troops. 

Meow. Oh, that? That was the sound Stiles' head made when something was too sexy for words. And Derek looking like he was about to order Stiles' to his knees and present his cock? Meow. 

Apparently taking note of Stiles' interest, Derek paused just long enough to arch an eyebrow in his direction. Right. No. No meow. This was serious business. Stiles was a professional. 

“Until we identify the killer, privacy is a thing of the past. All bags entering or leaving this house, including purses, will be searched. Starting now.” At the quiet grumble that arose, Derek said, “This is the first of many drastic measures this pack will endure. Because we're on the clock, now. Scott's scent, the scent of your former alpha, is tied to a string of brutal murders. I can prove his innocence, but I cannot remove this from public opinion. This pack has embarrassed the werewolf community. Wolves will want us punished and hunters will want us dead. The clock is ticking, and every member of this pack will sacrifice, should willing sacrifice, privacy to ensure our continued existence. Now, empty your bags and organize your things. Quickly and silently.” 

Would it be weird if Stiles just rolled around at Derek's feet? That'd be weird, right? 

Yet, to some degree—a very small degree, Stiles hoped—most of the wolves seemed to agree. There were twinges of resentment coming from the usual suspects, but the air smelled warm and pleasant, overall. Maybe Stiles wasn't the only one with an unexplored dominance kink. Or maybe that was a universal need in werewolves. They formed packs for a reason, and their alpha felt powerful and capable of protecting them right now. Maybe, if Scott had been a little more like Derek, these murders wouldn't have happened. 

One by one, Derek searched their things, including the pack in his discoveries. There were condoms, birth control, tampons, and one purple dildo. Isaac only raised his chin when it was itemized, though, so Stiles didn't feel too bad for him. The arsenal of weapons, Derek collected, one at a time. 

Erica had to clear her throat before she could manage a quiet, “Shouldn't we be armed?” 

“There will be four weapons caches. One near each door, one in the basement, and one upstairs. They will be easily accessible but in plain view.” Derek nodded at him. “Stiles, your gun.” 

But....

He handed it over with almost no hesitation. Derek kept the gun, but returned the clip to him.

“What about claws and fangs?” Danny demanded. “Are you going to hand those over, too? Because it seems to me—”

Derek said, “You'd better stick close to your wolves, then. Right?”

“Yeah, sure. I'll have Ethan walk me to the bathroom.” 

Derek, staring down his nose at the seated Danny, said, “Good idea.” 

When Danny blinked first, Derek lifted his gaze and surveyed the pack. “Let's talk about sex.” 

...baby. Let's talk about you and … Stiles, obviously, did not say this out loud. 

“If you must have sex, do it quietly. Jackson. Lydia. Peter went to his cabin last night and was found dead this morning. I never heard him leave. What I did hear was the two of you screaming. We can call that a coincidence, if you like, but it won't happen again.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Obnoxiously loud sex will earn you a bucket of ice water. The same goes for everyone in the house, myself included.”

Jackson grumbled, “Not my fault I'm good.” 

“Order a ball gag,” Derek said. “I don't give a shit.” 

Stiles, meanwhile, was focused on Derek being included in the threat. Did that mean they could have sex again? Or was Derek just making a point? If Stiles had a vote … he'd like to try a gag. Or, even better, he could struggle to be super quiet. He'd miss Derek's voice, fuck, his filthy words, but being forced to bite back his whines and moans.... 

Noticing his scent of arousal, Stiles tried to stomp down on the thoughts. And, damn it, he wasn't even hard! Curbing inappropriate erections was bad enough. Now he had to guard against his scent? 

“Which segues nicely into communications. There will be two computers in use. One in the living room, for pack use. Stiles will keep his to coordinate the investigation. The rest will be locked away. And everyone will turn in their phones. Each of you will be given a disposable for emergency purposes. All calls will be logged, and the minutes available will be compared to those logs daily.”

“Dude,” Erica whined, “my zombie farm's gonna get raided to hell and back.” 

Isaac sighed. “Goodbye porn.” 

Stiles was beginning to think Isaac needed a special friend—immediately. Said the chronically, and happily, single nerd. If Isaac wanted to fuck himself with a purple dildo to porn, more power to him! 

After the phones had been relinquished—Stiles keeping his, because he was special—Lydia asked, “What do you expect us to do all day?” 

“Watch tv. Play games. Work out. As long as you don't kill anyone, I don't care.” He shook his head, eyes wide, no fucks given. “We're not trying to catch the killer in the act. We're not giving anyone enough rope to hang themselves with. We are each making it impossible for any member of this pack to kill. Forensic evidence and police work will do the rest. Everyone got it?” 

When he received only nods of—in some cases, grudging—agreement, Derek hummed his satisfaction. 

“There are five bedrooms upstairs. Isaac, I want you in the master suite with Allison.” Derek glared at each person, even Stiles. He liked to think it was for show, but still wanted to pout. “She'll be back soon, and will be treated with the respect owed to a member of this pack. Everyone else, pick your room. Mine is at the top of the stairs. After you get unpacked, make a list of your travel necessities for the week. When you leave for and return from work. Any appointments. Stiles and I will be organizing duties and schedules. No one is to leave the house.”

As the silence stretched, Derek nodded toward the stairs and people started moving. When they were alone, Stiles could only stare at Derek. There were things. Things he wanted to say. Things he wanted to do. But he heard every conversation in the house, and simultaneously wanted to listen to each of them and make everyone and everything disappear so he could have Derek to himself.

He frowned at his mate and Derek bent to collect the weapons and phones. Then said, “Come on, Stiles.” 

The room wasn't big. Just a room instead of a cabin, but it smelled like Derek. There were even posters on the walls—sports teams, mostly—and knickknacks on the dresser. The bed wasn't big either, but after sleeping without Derek for days, Stiles welcomed the small space. 

“This was your room,” he stated the obvious. 

“Since I was seventeen.” Derek tried to smile at him, but the gesture was weak and broken. “You like it?” 

“Come here.” 

Derek notched his chin into the air even as his eyes clenched. He whispered, “Stiles.” 

Knowing Derek might not come to him, that he might not be able, Stiles walked into his space and pressed close. Sliding his hands up Derek's back, and resting his chin on Derek's shoulder, Stiles had only to a moment to wait before being caught, held, and cherished. Into Derek's ear, he whispered, “The killers did everything they could to break you, but you didn't break. You were so strong for us, and I am so proud of you. But your uncle died, today. He was a little weird, and too proud for his own good, but he loved you, Derek. And you loved him. If anyone faults you for mourning, they can go to hell.” 

The house fell silent. Except for Lydia, obviously. She was still bitching about the size of her room, but Stiles put her from his mind. When the silence stretched and Derek only clung to him, Stiles nodded toward the bed. 

“Lie down with me? Please? I need, Derek, I need to feel your weight. Just ten minutes. Ten minutes in your arms and I'll—”

But he didn't have to make promises or beg. Stiles blinked and he was tumbling into the bed, not sure how Derek had managed it without releasing his grip, but feeling himself radiate affection and satisfaction. His body did that weird stretching, shudder thing Derek teased from him so effortlessly, and then their bodies were slotting together just right, Derek's weight a comforting blanket of strength and warmth. 

Inhaling deeply, Stiles sighed his contentment. “I can smell you, now.” 

“I noticed.” Derek nosed at his chin and whispered, “I can smell you, too. Smelled you at the briefing.” 

And just like that, everyone found something to talk about. Stiles smirked, but appreciated the illusion of privacy, focusing his attention on the man draped across his chest. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I couldn't help it.” 

Derek hummed his agreement like approval. But it hadn't been the time for lust. Still wasn't. Despite his stoicism, Stiles sensed Derek's sadness. There was weariness there, too. Like he'd been cut too deeply by loss, too often, and scar tissue—gnarled and thick—hampered and numbed this newest slice. Like all that remained was remembered pain and the cold realization that the wound had been reopened. 

With a grunt, Derek nipped at his throat. 

Shaking the morose thoughts away, Stiles grinned widely and said, “What can I say? You being all masterful and dominant does it for me, big guy.” 

He laughed softly. “Unless I'm trying to dominate you.”

“New rule. When we're making clothes-on decisions, play nice. When my dick's hard, dominate away.” 

He expected amusement, maybe another nip of teeth. He didn't expect lingering silence broken only by Derek's weary sigh. His mate pressed even closer, his chest shuddering as his breathing went erratic. 

“I'm sorry,” Derek whispered. 

“Stop. Don't apologize.” Stiles petted the back of his head. “I wanted to make you smile, but you don't have to smile today.” 

“Not for being ... not for mourning. For making this decision for you. I proclaimed myself alpha, and I can't abandon them again, but I need you like air. And I—”

“You're not an indoor dog.” At Derek's startled snort, Stiles rushed on, “Erica warned me to drop that analogy, but it's true. You don't fit in my life.” 

Derek jerked, a barely-there whine begging at the back of his throat. “Stiles—”

“Oh, stop. My old life. You don't belong in the city, and, maybe, neither do I. Not anymore. Not as a werewolf. But, Derek, that doesn't even matter.” He tightened his hand in his mate's hair and urged his head back, urged their gazes to meet. “My life is wherever you are. I'm stressed and sad, and I've been crazy twice now, but I finally feel alive. This, us, most people search all their lives for something half this epic, and they never find it. I wasn't even looking, and I got you and I got the pack. I have friends, family. You're the best luck I've ever had.”

Derek only stared at him for long seconds, and then pressed closer. The kiss was sweet, heartbreakingly so. The gentle slide of lips on lips and the flutter of Derek's eyelashes against his cheek. When Derek's mouth lifted, taking Stiles' strength with it, he let his head fall back. Panted up at the ceiling.

Grinning widely, he added, “And I've totally got superpowers. Not exactly on topic, but worth mentioning. Superpowers.”

“I love you,” Derek said. 

Still grinning, Stiles whispered, “You're my favorite.” 

*** 

Half an hour later, Derek had written up a patrol schedule and worked out the travel situation. Stiles had checked his email and relaid the mates' full names and last known address to his father. He'd also learned the pathologist was swamped with the new body—Peter's body—and the saw measurements wouldn't be done until tomorrow, at best. And that was the good news. Because getting a max temperature from the coffee-pot people? That wasn't happening. Instead of responding with an answer, they'd forwarded contact information for their lawyers. So … tomorrow Stiles was renting a blow torch and doing some hands-on investigating. Which, actually, sounded awesome. 

Shortly after that, Allison arrived with their bags—John leaving a minute later. As Derek searched each bag, Allison looked around the house, fidgeting. Stiles felt for her. Really, he did. Derek wouldn't throw her out on the streets, but it wasn't exactly her home anymore, either. 

It wasn't exactly a home at all. Closer to a military barracks, or the world's swankiest holding cell. A clear division had formed within the house. Jackson, Lydia, Ethan, and Danny were huddled together on the couch, refusing to give up the remote or position of household superiority, but speaking to no one. Isaac, Boyd, and Erica were playing Sorry. But no one reacted as their pieces were sent home, and no one laughed at the sitcom. Basically, it was crazy tense and hella awkward. 

Pulling Allison aside—as if it made even the slightest difference—he whispered, “Did you hear? Scott's in a CIA safe house.” 

Her brittle smile was overpowered by the furrow of her eyebrows, turning it into a grimace. “I heard about Peter. It's horrible.” Pressing her lips close to his ear, she whispered, “I don't feel safe here.” 

Somehow, that hurt. Of course she didn't feel safe. She wasn't safe. Her alpha was gone and they were living with serial killers. It was like a wicked game of Clue, or a scary movie. If she'd felt safe, Stiles would have questioned her sanity. At the same time, some instinctive part of him bristled. His mate was a good alpha. His mate would keep everyone safe, fed, and happy. Only, no one was safe or happy. 

Fed. Not even fed. No one had eaten. His mate was going on no food and an hour of sleep. The thought shook him—made his hands twine and his heart pound. Part of his reaction was instinct, but part was simple common sense. Stiles was unarmed and still jumped when his fangs popped. If someone needed killing, it'd fall to Derek. Which, yeah, didn't automatically mean it was his job to feed Derek, but … Stiles made a mean grilled cheese and people were hungry. Did it have to be more complicated than that? 

Stupid feminists. And why was he the woman here? Because he took it up the ass and liked to cook? Wasn't that anti-feminist? Or …. if these were his thoughts, did that make him anti-feminist? But....

“Stiles?” Allison asked. 

“Oh! Ah, Isaac's going to sleep in your room. You won't be alone.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Wanna help me cook lunch?” 

She shrugged. “Might as well make myself useful.” 

“Right?” He slapped her—maybe a little too hard—on the shoulder. “Exactly!” 

Derek had finished searching the bags, and was zipping their contents up again. But when the alpha looked up at him, there was hope and appreciation in his eager expression. 

“How do you feel about grilled cheese? Ingredients willing.”

He nodded and said, “Thank you, Stiles.” 

Grinning, Stiles asked, “Should I make a pot of coffee?” 

Derek stood and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Rubbing his hand along the curve of Stiles' neck, right where he'd bitten, Derek shuddered slightly. In that moment, Stiles was trembling, desperate and eager to care for his mate. 

Then he paused, an idea squirming its way into his brain. Not stopping to think about it too long, he called out, “Jackson, help me with lunch?” 

Beside Stiles, Allison went still. Jackson turned to look over the back of the couch, his confused expression flitting from Stiles to Derek and back. Finally, he said, “Sure?” 

Aware of Allison taking a step backward, Stiles said, “Boyd? Help a brother out?”

“Of course.” Boyd stood without hesitation. Then, into the tense silence of the room, he growled playfully at Erica. “Don't cheat while I'm gone.” 

Erica batted her lashes at him and said, “Me? Cheat?” 

“Exactly,” Isaac said. “You, cheat.”

Chuckling, Stiles started for the kitchen, relieved when Allison followed. Or, he was until she got a look at the refrigerator. Everyone's food had been piled in haphazardly, and it set her off on a sighing, hand-fluttering fit of organizational fury. Luckily, he'd chosen men who voluntarily sought out the company of Erica and Lydia. Allison's quiet muttering didn't even register.

After she'd located cheese and thrown it onto the kitchen island, Stiles said, “Okay, grilled cheese and coffee.” 

“We're gonna need more than that, dude,” Jackson said. “I know you're new, but we can eat.”

Without looking away from her task, Allison ordered, “Boil a pot of water. A big one. Macaroni salad goes a long way.”

“Sounds good.” Stiles looked to Boyd. “Know where the pots are?” 

As Boyd silently went about his task, Stiles turned to Jackson. “You want to make coffee or start buttering bread?” 

“Bread,” Boyd said. “He's used to Lydia's coffee. The rest of us will be climbing walls and bitching up a storm when we crash. It's not pretty.” 

From the living room, Erica called, “I can hear you!” 

“You are glorious in many ways.” In a stage whisper, Boyd added, “But on a caffeine crash isn't one of them.” 

“Vernon! Make me come in there!” 

Looking to Boyd, a little concerned—and not only because his name was Vernon—Stiles relaxed at the small grin on the other man's face. Jackson, not even bothering to wait for a verdict, had begun buttering bread. Unfortunately, he'd taken a cold cube from the fridge while Allison was distracted and was making a travesty of it. 

“Allison? You have any melted butter?” Stiles asked. 

“In the cupboard on top of the microwave.” She huffed. “Who brought this ketchup? It's practically empty! You know, I'd bet money on Isaac. No woman would have allowed this.” 

“You're not wrong. Lydia would have had my balls.” Jackson took the room temperature butter and nodded happily when the bread didn't tear. “Nice save, man.” 

Because Jackson had never buttered bread before? Noted.

Stiles used a full 12 cups of water, but hesitated when it came time to add the coffee. So, if he was to believe Boyd, a tablespoon per cup wasn't the norm? So, six tablespoons? Fuck, he got a PhD before most people finished their BA. If anyone didn't think coffee-flavored jet fuel was involved, they weren't very smart. 

When he turned the can around to read the instructions, Boyd gently nudged him out of the way and added four tablespoons. Huh. Now he knew. 

When he turned around, Jackson had abandoned his task to hover behind Allison. “What else you got?” 

Stiles scoffed, because they were making lunch, not a four-course meal, but Allison didn't even hesitate. “These need to go.” 

She held a bag of apples out behind her, and Jackson snatched it up. Turning it over in his hands, he asked, “Pie?” 

“I could make an apple crisp,” Boyd said. At Jackson's skeptical, masculinity-questioning look, Boyd shrugged. “Erica would eat pizza five times a week if I didn't cook.”

Jackson snorted. “Wanna trade?” 

“Seriously?” Erica yelled. “Do I need to come in there?” 

“You hear that sound?” Jackson asked, jumping up on the island. “That's the sound of my girlfriend not being a werewolf. You should try it sometime.”

“Hey, Lydia,” Erica called. 

Stiles gasped. “Don't you fucking dare!” 

Erica chuckled and finished with, “What ya watching over there?” 

Lydia screamed, like a thousand times too loud, “Jackson! I think we both know I'm not stupid!” 

Jackson snarled at Boyd. “Control your woman. Damn.” 

As Erica cackled in the living room, Allison muttered, “Cut the apples up and eat them raw. They'll go further.” 

As Jackson bitched about being denied pie, Stiles stared at Allison. She was like the Ghost of Christmas Future. That would be him someday, wouldn't it? All gender-role confusion aside, he was the alpha's mate. One day he'd be organizing that refrigerator and muttering about making food stretch. He loved Derek, he did. But the idea kinda made his balls shrivel. 

“I'm not a good cook,” he announced out of nowhere. 

Jackson raised a brow at him and said, “Okay. Random, dude. Fifth graders can manage grilled cheese.” 

“Which is why I suggested it!” He pitched his voice slightly louder. “You hear me, Derek? I'm not a good cook. You've got to cook sometimes.” 

From the living room, Derek said, “Okay, Stiles.” 

Was Derek patronizing him? Because, seriously. Yeah, he was a genius and he could make cooking his bitch, but that wasn't the point. Was it? What was the point? 

Scowling, he said, “I'm serious.” 

Derek laughed at him. Straight up laughed. The sound was so delicious, Stiles could barely remember what they were talking about. But then Derek offered, “You want me to make apple crisp?” 

And, huh. Because, did he want to see Derek cook? The two of them pressed together in the … yeah, alright, it was a big kitchen. But he was fairly sure Derek would allow him to press close, to touch, anyway. And did he want that? A world of yes. But he'd chosen Boyd and Jackson because they hadn't spent much time together, and this was bonding. So, yes, but definitely no. Except, hell yeah. 

“I think you broke him,” Jackson announced, snapping his fingers in front of Stiles' face. 

“Stop.” Stiles slapped his hand away. “No. Definitely, no. But rain check.”

“Rain check,” Derek agreed. 

Half an hour later, Boyd had made macaroni salad and Jackson was finishing the first three sandwiches. Stiles—though it had physically pained him—had cut the apples up to be eaten raw. His pout had lessened as he watched Jackson nurse the grilled cheese, though. The guy was unintentionally hilarious. Eyebrows furrowed, spatula at the ready, he stood over the sandwiches like he was going to battle. He hadn't burned one yet, though. Flipped them six times before they were brown. But he hadn't burned one. 

When the first wave of sandwiches was almost done, he poured Derek a cup of coffee. Hand halted midway to the sugar, Stiles realized he had no idea how Derek liked it. The moment was a sort of out-of-body experience. In some ways he felt closer to Derek than anyone on the planet. In others, they were strangers. The duality was jarring. 

“Derek?” he asked. “Milk? Sugar?” 

“Just a little sugar, please.” 

Snatching the first three sandwiches, eyes narrowed when Jackson dared to frown, Stiles put them on Derek's plate. Adding some macaroni salad and apple slices, he grabbed Derek's coffee and walked them out to his mate. Why? Because Derek was alpha and he was Stiles' mate. Maybe he didn't get first dibs at the slaughtered elk … well, yeah, he probably did. But the point was, he got first dibs on grilled cheese, too. Because Stiles said so.

When he made it to the living room, Derek was playing Sorry with Erica and Issac, having taken Boyd's place. Stiles slid the plate before him and kissed Derek on top of the head, feeling—once again—strangely proud of himself for feeding his mate. And, yeah, maybe that feeling rubbed part of him the wrong way. But Derek had gone out and killed a South American rodent for him, presenting it like a peasant gifting a meal to his king. If Stiles felt shivery serving up a plate of grilled cheese, so what? He was making himself useful. Plus, Derek looked super grateful. 

“I still want apple crisp,” Stiles muttered. 

Derek grinned at him, and Stiles felt the world stop. Then Derek grabbed his hand and nibbled on his wrist—blunt, human teeth teasing and tasting—before releasing him. Stiles didn't know what it meant, but it made him feel good. 

He half stumbled his way back to the kitchen, loose-limbed and content. When, what felt like forever later, he emerged from the kitchen with his own plate, the majority of Derek's meal was sitting untouched on the table. He'd eaten two of the sandwiches, but the rest was waiting. 

With a frown, Stiles sat down next to him and chastised, “It would have been better hot.” 

Derek shrugged. “It'll be better with you.” 

Grinning stupidly, Stiles leaned closer and whispered, “You're surprisingly sweet.” 

Derek ducked his head and answered, “To you.” 

“Oh, my god. Stop,” Erica complained. “I'm getting a toothache over here.”

Stiles winked at her. “Then stop looking at my eye candy!” 

When she slugged him on the shoulder, Derek only laughed.


	12. Ectoplasm

Stiles went to sleep alone, Derek and Ethan taking the first round of patrols, and woke up to hysterical screaming. He was half out of bed when Derek shoved him backward with a growl and vaulted for the door. Then Boyd shouted, “Nightmare! Just a nightmare!” 

Standing with his hand on the doorknob, Derek's head hung as he listened to Erica sob and growl. Listened to Boyd try to comfort her. Stiles ran a hand over his face, sympathetic tears welling. 

“Derek?” he called, reaching for his mate. 

“I need to check the house.” 

And then he was gone, leaving Stiles alone in the dark room as Erica's smothered pants gave way to hiccups and a string of curses. 

“Breathe, Erica. Come on, breathe with me.”

Downstairs, he heard Derek questioning Lydia and Isaac on their patrol. As expected, everything was quiet. He couldn't fault Derek his fear, though. The majority of the Hales had been slaughtered after no provocation. Now, two Argents were dead. The wolves were in as much danger as any army base. The only difference was, they didn't have the freedom to start putting up fences and digging trenches.

“Okay. Okay. I'm fine.” Erica growled and Stiles heard the bed creak. “That was stupid.” 

“Honey, you know what the therapist said. If you'd own your feeling of—”

“Stiles!” Erica called. “Patrol starts now. Get your ass up.” 

“Erica....” Boyd sighed, then settled on, “Be careful.” 

“Always.”

A second later, Erica barged into his room. Shaking his head, Stiles didn't turn as he finished pulling on his socks and shoes. When he did turn, his nose wrinkled. Oops. Rude. But Erica was a flushed, sweaty mess, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. 

Her gaze bore into his, as if daring him to speak. And, no. He was good. With a smile, Stiles motioned her toward the door and led the way. Downstairs, Derek was frowning as he checked his watch, but his expression softened when he saw Erica. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

Because Derek was a brave, brave alpha. 

“I'm fine.” Ducking her head, she admitted, “I feel stupid.” 

Crossing to her side, Derek pressed a kiss to her forehead. Then he straightened and turned away from her, saying only, “This adds another hour to your patrol. Lydia, Isaac, you can head to bed.” 

“Are you sure?” Lydia sniped. “You might need my fighting skills.” 

Derek eyed her, unimpressed. “Everyone patrols, Lydia.” 

“Look, I'm trying to be a good little soldier here. I know what you all think of me.” She looked away briefly, her frown deepening. “But couldn't I do something I'm good at? Let me help with the case. I want this over, too, and I'm amazing at finding patterns and solving problems. I could be an asset.” 

“No,” Stiles snapped. “That's never gonna happen.” 

“Look! Just because … I'm a bitch, okay? Or I can be, and ever since you got here, I've felt like an outsider. Everyone thinks, just because I'm not braiding hair with the pack, I'm killing people. But I'm not! I want Jackson to be alpha. There, I admitted it, but I wouldn't kill anyone.”

Why was it that even as she … apologized? Begged for their trust? Whatever it was she was doing, she still sounded aggressive and bitchy. Yet, as grating as she was, he almost believed her. A killer would have more tact. Right? Then again, Peter's sly charm had led Stiles to believe him guilty, and he wasn't. Maybe assuming the killer hid their motives behind a mask was a mistake. Maybe the aggressive bitch was the sadistic killer. 

Either way, she'd read his files over Stiles' cold, dead body. 

“Lydia,” Derek started, using his negotiations voice. “I'm sorry you feel like an outsider, and I appreciate you taking some of the responsibility for that. I'm sure we can find some use for your skills, but Stiles and I are government agents. We can't include civilians in our investigation.” 

“Bullshit. What about Erica and Isaac? You've been including them since day one.” Waving them away with a roll of her eyes, she said, “Whatever, don't let me help. But we're the same. Because I'm smart, too, and I don't trust you, either. If Peter was the killer and he 'mysteriously' ended up dead, you better find a different patsy!” 

“Excuse me?” Stiles sneered. 

“My thoughts exactly, when you insinuated me having sex got Peter killed.” She turned and stormed up the stairs, stopping midway to yell, “Jackson's felt shitty all night! Not that any of you noticed!” 

Gaping, he heard Jackson groan from upstairs and mutter, “Sorry. Though, yeah.” 

Stiles felt his eyes pulse, but the sensation didn't stop there. The entire world seemed to convulse around him as he stood frozen. Usually, his head would be a jumble of words, but it wasn't. His mind was a vacuum of white noise, and his body felt alien. Other. Lydia's scent seemed to envelope him, to beckon him up the stairs like they were attached by a string. 

The string jerked and he jumped forward. 

Derek had him on the floor, hand at his throat, before he landed. When Stiles opened his mouth to voice some animal complaint, Derek slapped a hand over it, silencing him physically and with the flash of red eyes. 

“Show's over,” Derek said. “Everyone go to bed.”

“So, anything else you want us to do tonight?” Erica asked, speaking a little too loudly. “Or are we looking out windows for three hours?” 

“Be vigilant, please.” Derek leaned forward to rest his forehead against Stiles' and added, “I don't want you distracted.”

“Right, okay. So, is there, like, a, um, a code word or something? For if we see trouble?” 

“Ah....” Stiles followed Derek's gaze to Erica. She threw her arms wide in an exaggerated shrug, and Derek snorted. “Just control the situation. I know you'll make me proud. Right, Stiles?”

Right. Right. Derek was talking to him. He was supposed to make Derek proud. Derek.... He focused on his mate, crawling back from the edge a slow inch at a time. He had to stay in control for his mate. For the pack. Be good for Derek. Be human. 

He blinked up at Derek and felt his own face contort with horror. What the fuck? What the actual fuck? What just happened? How did it happen? And why? Why now? He'd kept control through Peter's death only to lose it now? Over Lydia's words? 

As Derek's hand slowly loosened, Stiles whispered, “We'll make you proud.” 

The words didn't help. They worked just fine for a metaphor, but Stiles didn't feel proud. He felt out of control and dirty. Ashamed. Why was he such a shitty werewolf? He couldn't mate properly. Couldn't transition properly. Couldn't even control his anger.

When Derek removed his hands entirely, Stiles turned his head to the side, wanting to hide. He couldn't even apologize. Not with ears on them. Not when anything he said would incriminate him and Derek both. Lydia was the second person to accuse Derek of Peter's murder. The last thing they needed was the pack knowing Stiles wanted her dead. Jackson and the others might turn against Derek completely.

Or … wait. 

Wait. 

He wiggled out from beneath Derek—primarily because he was allowed to—and stood. Growling softly in his throat, Stiles shook his head. Cunt. 

Trying to go for a pen and paper, Derek caught his arm, expression quizzical. Bouncing with his frustration, Stiles gave a giant shrug. Okay. Charades. Fair warning: he wasn't very good. 

He pointed to Derek's eyes, then drew a smaller, human shape in the air beside Derek. Smaller, with the red eyes. Then he gestured from the shape to his own face and used his fingers to draw himself a Glasgow smile, Black Dahlia style. He pointed to the shape again, made stabbing motions, and pointed back at his exaggerated smile. Turning his hand into a yapping mouth, he drew a circle around it, then made stabby motions again, but at the small, red-eyed shape. Then he drew the circle around the yappy mouth again, pointed with two fingers at Derek's eyes, and back to the circle. Striking his hand through the air, he put his hands around the shape's shoulders and moved it to the side. Then he gestured up and down at Derek, made a stabbing motion, and redrew the victim's sliced cheeks on his own face. Yappy hand, circle, stabby at Derek, circle, red eyes. Yappy hand, stabbity, Glasgow smile!

Then he threw his arms wide. Because, right? 

Erica shook her head at him, looking horrified. “The fuck?” 

He groaned, then tried the universal signal for a pen. At Derek's nod, he rushed off to the kitchen and returned an infuriating minute later. 

Plopping onto a chair at the table, Stiles wrote: 

“That made perfect sense! Screw you guys! Anyway, we know the killers framed Scott so someone could take his alpha status. But Scott's gone. And Lydia and Ethan are accusing Derek of murder? They're doing the same thing! She wanted to spread doubt. Wanted me to attack her. Maybe. None of that was real. It's Lydia!” 

The two wolves read it over his shoulder, and then Derek took the pen and wrote: “Evidence?” 

Erica gestured for the pen impatiently, and then wrote: “She has an alibi for Peter's murder.” 

Stiles nodded and wrote: “Maybe one person committed this murder. Or all four are working together, alternating for alibis.” 

Derek rubbed a hand over his face and jabbed a finger into his first message: “Evidence?” 

As he tried to gather his mind and come up with some legitimate proof—as if he hadn't been trying for the last week—Ethan's voice erupted loudly through the silent house. “What the hell are you doing down there?” 

Jackson said, “It's kinda creepy.” 

Derek sighed and rolled his shoulders, looking tired. Which … yeah. “I'm going to bed. You two be careful. Love you, Stiles.” 

“Love you, too. Get some sleep.” 

So, what had he learned? Lydia was in this with at least one other person, possibly more. Or … she'd heard Ethan's accusations and had been manipulated into repeating them. But the blood splatter? Except, how much bigger was Ethan, really? Taller, yeah, but in the hips and thighs? What if he stood sideways? What if anyone stood sideways? 

What if Stiles slammed his head into the wall until he passed out? What about that? 

Erica must have watched the play of emotions on his face, because she was frowning at him in sympathy. She asked, “You want a cookie? I hid cookies.” 

“I do. I do want a cookie.” Head hanging, he muttered, “Not raisin, right?” 

“Do I look new?” 

Five minutes later, Stiles was munching on his cookie and looking out the window. It looked … dark. Mostly, it looked dark. But the cookie was awesome. The good kind that came individually wrapped in foil. He didn't want to be a prostitute about it, but he figured this made Erica his best friend. 

“So, random question,” Erica said, a hint of snark in her voice. “Derek hasn't talked to you about the full moon, has he?” 

“You mean my next shining opportunity to fail spectacularly? No. Not yet.” 

“Whiners don't get cookies, Stiles.” 

“Sorry.” 

“You need an anchor. Someone who keeps you human … ish. I figure, you're all Gone With the Wind for Derek—”

“You haven't read that book, have you?” 

“So use Derek for an anchor.” 

Stiles muttered, “The movie's worth watching.” 

“This is why I hit you.” 

Pushing Gone With the Wind from his mind—because Derek so gave a damn—Stiles forced himself to focus. “I think, I did that. You know, this one time. I was feeling a little crazy, but then I thought about staying strong for Derek, and it passed. But what I don't get is, I saw Peter's dead body. If I was going to lose my shit, why didn't it happen then?” 

Erica shrugged. “Because everyone else was. You were using Derek for an anchor, then. You had to stay in control for him, so you did.”

“Makes sense. So, okay, I think about Derek and maintain my consciousness.” 

“It sucks this is your first full moon. You should get to run.” She switched to his window and peered out a minute, her eyes burning amber. “Instead we'll be trapped inside this house. It's going to be hard, even without you. Try not to make it harder, okay? For Derek.” 

Was Erica trying to manipulate him? Or telling it like it was? Maybe the two weren't that different. Still, turning violent was a distant worry. More present now, obviously, but he'd been worrying about the alternative longer. And now, in this house with everyone.... “What about the mating bond? What's going to happen when I turn completely?” He sighed. “I'm gonna make a total ass of myself, aren't I?”

Erica looked like she wanted to comfort him. Yet, after a lengthy pause, she only managed a shrug. “I don't know, man. You need to talk to Derek about that.” 

“What's a recipient mate?” 

She shuddered. “That's another Derek question.” 

“Actually, why don't we make it a Google question.”

Erica turned on him, eyes wide. “Don't do that.” 

Watching her eye his phone, Stiles held it closer to his chest. “Why not?” 

“People are sleeping!” she exclaimed in a whisper. 

“Ah … I read pretty quietly, most of the time. Maybe you do it differently.”

“You also flail and rant all the time.” She shook her head hard. “Just, not while people are sleeping, okay?” 

And, yeah, he was terrified. He couldn't have waited now if he wanted to—and part of him didn't want to know anymore. Because, obviously, this wasn't a good thing. Not if he was going to rant and flail. 

“Keep watch,” he ordered. “I have to know.” 

“Stiles, come on. Don't make me listen to this. Please.” 

You know what? Fuck Google. Erica obviously knew the big, dark secret. Why should he have to fish around the internet, hoping for accurate information, when he had a wolf in front of him? 

“Just tell me.” Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, trying out his stern face. “Save me the time and bandwidth, and just tell me. What's the big deal?” 

She glanced toward the ceiling, as if Derek might save her. But Derek was sleeping. The house was silent save for Isaac's soft snoring. 

“I hate you.” She rolled her eyes, one hip jutting as she widened her stance—as if readying herself for battle. “So, Stiles, when a boy werewolf and a girl werewolf mate—”

“You're hilarious.” 

“Shut up!” Cracking her knuckles, she rushed on. “When they mate, the female goes into heat a few times a year, usually about four. That's what the potpourri is for, remember? And the heats are for breeding, to get the chick knocked up. You've seen Derek's knot, right? Same purpose.” 

“Fuck me! Am I gonna get pregnant?” 

She hissed and glared. “Be quiet. This is why I didn't want to tell you.” 

Slapping a hand to his mouth, he curled in on himself, head migrating between his knees without his permission. “Oh my god.” 

“Oh, for fuck's—you're not getting pregnant. Jesus. Just let me … when it's two males, one still goes into heat. You must know that. The whole scent debacle? Your body was trying to go into heat, but it couldn't yet. So, yeah, 'recipient mate' is the gender neutral term for a mate who goes into heat. And since Derek's the alpha, that's you.” 

“Oh. So … marathon sex four times a year? That's not a huge problem for me.” 

She snorted. “It's not as sexy as it sounds, especially for the rest of us. But there's something else.” 

Holding up a finger, she looked out both windows one last time and then motioned for him to follow her. Near the front door, she peered out both of those windows, and then turned back to him. 

“There's this genetic hiccup. Or, it's not really a bad thing. I guess it makes sense.” She frowned in consideration, obviously trying out several versions of the next sentence in her head. Then, with a shrug, she said, “You know how straight sex, traditionally, doesn't need lube, but gay sex does? You don't need lube anymore.” 

He understood immediately, really. He still puzzled through the sentences for a good long time. Remembering Danny's comment about Stiles' ass getting wet and how embarrassed everyone got, he felt himself blush, mortified. 

“So if I get turned on—”

“You don't need lube. Right.” 

“But....” He frowned hugely. “No offense or anything, but that's, like, one third of the reason I'm gay. That stuff's ... yucky is probably too strong of a word, but it leapt to my mind. We'll settle on, weird. All slimy and shit, like ectoplasm.” 

Erica chuckled, her mouth firmly shut to contained the noise even as her chest heaved. “Did you just imply my pussy is possessed?” 

“Laugh it up, Erica.” And, look at that, she wasn't wrong—he wanted to rant and flail. But he breathed deeply and kept the noise to a minimum. “The rest of my life, I'm gonna be walking around, feeling like I came in my boxers. Oh my god, boxers. Should I wear briefs, now? What if, like, when I walk, it leaks down my legs?” 

He clapped a hand to his mouth, stomach lurching.

Erica laughed, then. Gave up the pretense of quiet and laughed in his face. “Oh my god, I'm actually super glad I told you. This is great.”

Storming to the window, he made a show of looking around. Only, it wasn't nearly so dark anymore. He was annoyed enough to have called forth his eyes. 

“Look, it's not that bad.” She snorted her laughter and added, “Think of all the money you'll save. With your possessed ass.” 

He wanted to laugh with her, because this wasn't the end of the world. He would have settled for being pissed at her, because she was way too amused by his misery. But all he could really think was, “What if Derek doesn't like it?” 

She groaned. “You had to get all earnest. Okay, look. Don't come to me for heartfelt conversations. That's not my thing. But, just this once, since I really needed to laugh, I'll humor you.” She tried to school her expression—failed—and then chuckled through saying, “You being wet will mean one thing to Derek, his dick in your ass. That's it. Derek likes his dick in your ass. Derek likes your ass wet. End of story. Swear to god, I know you're a guy and all, but men are not complicated.”

“I guess....” 

“Anyway, this is news to you. Derek? Not so much.” 

“Wait. You're right.” He frowned. “It's kinda shitty he didn't tell me, right?” 

“Totally. Between you going mate crazy and scent crazy, there was at least a day.” 

“How about right before he bit me? Like, by the way, your ass will turn into a vagina. We still green?” 

Erica chuckled. “I think you just answered your own question.” At his glare, she threw her hands wide. “Look, I don't care. Be pissed at him. But he was trying to keep you safe. Plus, superpowers. From what I hear, that's worth mentioning.” 

He tried scowling at her, but it ended in a grin. So, he had a self-lubricating ass now. Interesting. 

***

Something had him blinking awake, the sky still dark. You see, in Stiles' imagination, strange sounds in the middle of the night while he was on high alert? Obviously, he would leap out of bed, roll across the floor and come up with his gun drawn and cocked, eyes hard. In reality? He whimpered and whined, body bouncing with weary annoyance. Sleeping in one hour increments didn't turn him into the terminator. Big shock. 

Then he heard this sound. A weird rocking. Creaking? A soft, masculine groan. The whispered hiss of “shh.” Followed by, “Quiet, daddy.” 

Oh, fuck no! In no universe did he need to know Ethan called Danny “daddy” in bed. Not in one of them. Then the bed creaked, a quiet laugh accompanying it, and … slurping. Gagging. A hiss of pleasure, a whine. 

As Stiles stared up at the ceiling, frowning deeply, he heard, “Jackson?” Then a giggle and a soft sigh. “Feels good.” 

What? No! 

“Shh. Put something in your mouth.” 

Lydia cooed, “Your dick. Feed me, Daddy.”

What the flying fuck! What was with the 'daddy' thing? Jackson and Danny, both? That wasn't normal, was it? 

“Inside me,” Ethan moaned. “Now.” 

Danny growled, the sound wolf-like in a human's voice. Ethan responded with a mewl, and then the bed was creaking.

Stiles felt frozen. Shocked. The fact that Jackson had decided to join the growing sound orgy confused him. Since when did straight boys get turned on by gay sex? Was this something he'd missed somehow? 

Worse. Jackson wasn't the only one. At least two of these people were probably serial killers. But Stiles' dick didn't know that. Or care, apparently. Stiles' dick thought it was listening to porn. 

Danny moaned. Ethan hissed, slow and long, and Stiles could almost see Danny pressing his cock inside, inch by inch. Ethan's head falling back as the pain twisted into pleasure. 

Stiles couldn't stay on his back, just couldn't. Because his hands, like his dick, thought they understood what was happening and were sliding, inexorably, downward. Easing onto his side, he grimaced as the weight of his erection met gravity and hardened further. 

He could hear them. Fucking. The slide and slap of flesh. Ethan's hands grasping at the headboard. The rhythmic, pulsing rock of the bed.

Blinking his eyes open, he startled when he found Derek awake and watching him. Stiles blinked again, a terrible dread clenching his chest. Derek couldn't be awake. They couldn't be looking at each other. Hating himself even as he did it, Stiles sniffed the air. Suddenly, his eyes were too heavy, his body throbbing to the pulse of his heartbeat. His neck fell to the side. 

No! No way. But Derek smelled like wet earth and want, and Stiles ached. Not just his cock, which jerked, demanding attention, but his ass. His ass clenched and throbbed, the sensation somehow connected to his balls by a live wire. 

Derek's scent thickened, settling over him like a blanket. They were feeding off each other, Stiles realized. Every tease of Derek's scent made him ache, releasing a wave of lust at Derek, who suddenly smelled even hungrier. And so on and so on, until Stiles was living in a vacuum of yearning and desire. 

Suddenly, he heard a soft buzzing and shook his head. Isaac. Isaac and his purple dildo. 

What was wrong with these people? How were any of them going to look at each other in the morning? Yet, hadn't everyone heard Jackson and Lydia before, much louder than this? Hadn't Erica teased him, saying she'd heard him scream Derek's name? 

Maybe … no!

But then Derek was reaching for him, his hand sliding over Stiles' bared neck. And what was wrong with him, that he wanted to feel teeth there? He clenched his eyes shut, but heard only bodies moving and people finding pleasure. Forcing his eyes open again, he saw only Derek. It was better, but not. It was what he wanted, but couldn't take. The back of his throat tingled, a constricted whine or whimper. A beg. 

This was fucked up. So fucked up. Filthy and wrong. 

Derek's hand slid from his neck, downward, over the curve of his shoulder and along the length of his arm. And all the while, Stiles bit his lip, staring into Derek's hooded eyes. His mate's fingertips ran circles around his wrist, and slid against his palm. The electric sensitivity of their fingertips met and played, Stiles allowing himself that much. Allowed Derek to excite every nerve ending to tingling awareness, and then Derek was gripping his wrist, dragging his hand lower. Beneath the waist of Derek's sleep pants, across coarse hair, and onto his cock. The barest huff of air escaped Derek as Stiles' fingers circled and held. 

He was incredible softness stretched taut over steel, and Stiles couldn't help but squeeze gently. The world seemed to tilt, meaning getting jumbled and confused. His own lust, Stiles would have suffered through that. Would have grit his teeth and told himself he was above it. Above this shameless frenzy. Feeling Derek hot and hard in his hand made that not only impossible, but wrong. He wanted so badly to make Derek feel good, to care for his mate. It twisted inside him, made him hurt and tremble. 

Meeting Derek's gaze with his own wide, pleading eyes, his lips parted on a silent whine.

Derek nodded, just the barest indent of his head, and then he eased Stiles' hand away and slid from bed. He moved like an animal, like a predator, each movement careful and silent. Stiles felt his cock jerk at the sight, his body going boneless. 

Then he was in Derek's arms, being lifted from the bed as if he weighed nothing, and released again an instant before Derek pressed him against the wall. He wanted to whine a complaint, unsure his legs would hold him, werewolf strength be damned. Stiles didn't want the wall. Trying to let his body go limp, to find his rightful place on his hands and knees, ass lifted into the air, Stiles was halted by Derek's strong hands. He tossed his head, but Derek squeezed his arms, the flash of fangs and red eyes making him go pliant. 

Derek shook him lightly, and Stiles forced his knees to lock. Forced himself to support his weight. The instant he did, Derek jerked down both their pants, letting them bunch around their knees. Pressing close, he slotted their cocks together and rolled his hips.

Stiles felt the moan bubbling up in his throat. It scared him, because he knew more were to come. He didn't whine and whimper and moan for anyone's benefit. Derek startled and dragged those noises out of him. Willing himself silent had seemed sexy earlier, during Derek's briefing. Now, it seemed impossible. 

He could still hear the others, moaning and fucking. Seeking and finding pleasure. The sound was distant now, hardly an echo with Derek in his space, larger than life and demanding. But he didn't want to join them. Didn't want to make a sound. Only … Derek leaned one forearm against the wall beside his head, the other circling their cocks. The first stroke was dry and rough, forcing Stiles onto his tiptoes. But Derek's palm rubbed across their tips, catching the precome. The down stroke was better. Wetter and smoother, and Stiles bit his lip. 

He arched and writhed, as if the trapped sound was a living force rolling through his body. It hurt, his rising desire as painful as it was raw and demanding. There was nothing soothing about the slow drag of Derek's hand. Nothing at all. Any faster and there would be sound. Any faster and Stiles would lose himself. But this? This hurt. 

He tossed his head, miserable and aching, and trembling not only with desire but with his body's rigid control over each muscle and every sound. 

Then Derek groaned. Softly. It was a soft sound. A quiet sound. But it was a sound. A sound brazen and shocking in the silence. Stiles jerked his head back, meeting Derek's gaze with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. No. 

“Let go, baby.” Derek nuzzled beneath his ear and whispered, soft as breath, “This is part of it. Let go.”

He shook his head, feeling tears well, and Derek sank his teeth deep into Stiles' neck. The pain teased a strangled moan from him, and then Derek's hand was speeding up. Derek's hips rocked even as his hand stroked, and Stiles felt the drag and catch of Derek's ridge against his own, time and again. He exhaled, deeply, the sound a shuddering sigh, and his body fell loose and pliant. Derek sucked and lapped at the bite, making Stiles' balls throb and his ass ache. He needed Derek inside him, but didn't trust himself. Even this was too much. Any more and he didn't know what he'd do. 

So he shifted backward, his hole pressed to the wall, and strung his arms around Derek's neck for support, a soft, barely-there whine falling into and out of existence. Instead of being thrown by the change of angle, Derek sank his teeth in again, his body shaking. 

He understood, Stiles thought. Derek knew he needed pressure against his ass because he couldn't have Derek there, buried deep, where Stiles needed him. And he liked it. Liked it enough to bathe Stiles in the scent of pleasure. Liked it enough to shake and shudder as his hand tightened and his fangs claimed Stiles' body in a way his cock couldn't. 

Stiles didn't mind the arch of his back. Hoped Derek didn't mind as he dragged his mate's mouth closer and joined their lips. Derek's tongue surged and played, his body urging Stiles onto his tiptoes as his hand quickened. Became rougher. 

Stiles jerked, quickly breaking their kiss, and then his fangs surged free. Derek squeezed hard, every muscle in his body tense and shaking as desperation urged him faster and harder. Mouthing at Derek's neck, teeth dragging, he almost came when his mate's neck bared for him. Fangs sinking deep, he felt his body tense and draw taut, balancing on the precipice. 

Derek jerked, moaned, and came. Stiles felt the orgasm like it was his own. Felt the come hit his belly and slide down his cock. His body flashed hot, burning with satisfaction and the scorching spread of Derek's come across his skin. Jerking his hand back, his thrust through the messy, slick liquid and shuddered. When his own orgasm tore through him, it hurt. Balls constricting, ass aching in a demand that wouldn't be soothed this day, he shuddered and shook, fell apart. 

When Derek's heavy weight pinned him to the wall, neither of them strong enough to stand upright, Stiles let his eyes slide closed, pleased and content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed. Now, tell me, did anyone get Stiles' charades? I'm curious.


	13. The Smoking Gun

The weirdest thing? No one acted differently. As people shuffled downstairs, no one bated an eye or blushed. Even Erica, whom Stiles had counted on to make the awkward situation more awkward, said nothing. Which, really, was just odd. Was this the unspoken truth of werewolf culture? Sound orgies? It was a little weird. Then again, Derek grew up in a big pack, and the soundproofing in the cabins was new, so … he'd grown up listening to that. Once, Stiles heard his—

Nope. Too soon. That never happened.

So thinking of Derek listening to his family having sex, listening to his brothers and sisters masturbating, it was weird. 

Not as weird as the “daddy” thing, though. That was more than weird and awkward, that was meaningful in some way. A clue. Was it a Jackson and Ethan, thing? Ethan called Danny 'daddy' and was really talking to, or fantasizing about, Jackson? Or was it a Jackson and Danny, thing? They both demanded the title? Lydia inadvertently going along with that, Stiles could see: she couldn't hear Ethan calling out the same name. But Ethan? He knew. 

As he finished up his cereal, Stiles thought of the next day wistfully. Monday. He'd never yearned for Monday before, but if it got people to leave the house, he might throw it a parade. Unfortunately, it was Sunday, the house was packed—ha!—with people, and he had shit to do.

He missed his whiteboards. 

Hair still damp from the shower, Derek came down the stairs, looking pretty stern for a man who'd just gotten off. When he disappeared into the kitchen, Stiles assumed he was going for breakfast, but he reemerged a second later with a pen and paper. 

“Grocery list?” Stiles asked. 

“Something like that.” 

Stiles leaned over to get a better look and saw the first item: fire extinguishers. When the second was 'particle board' and the third was 'rifles,' he got the picture. They might not be able to dig trenches and put up barbed wire, but Derek was fortifying the house. As he continued to write, Derek announced, “Everyone, except Erica and Danny, get dressed. Be back here in fifteen minutes.”

Lydia hurried off, along with Isaac, but everyone else was presentable. Rolling his eyes, Stiles went to the kitchen and made Derek a bagel. Dumb ass alpha. 

When he got back, Derek took it with a smile, but ordered, “Get your badge and gun. Hip holster, but leave the clip in your pocket.” 

And wasn't that specific? Apparently, Derek's shower had been more productive than Stiles'. He'd spent his reliving his orgasm and freaking out. 

Fifteen minutes later, everyone was back in the living room, putting on their shoes. Erica was frowning at being left behind, but obviously trying not to pout. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, “we're putting a desk in the soundproof heat-room in the basement, so you'll have an office. Take Lydia, go to the dollar store for any office supplies you need, and then go to Trails: Hiking and Hunting. I want two decent rifles and a lot of ammo.” 

Stiles nodded, a little taken aback. It wasn't so much the guns, but the “lot of ammo” that seemed concerning. Not that the guns were comforting, either. Werewolves were sturdy, yeah, but a couple rounds from a high-powered rifle to the head would get the job done. Trusting Derek to have a plan, he nodded. 

“Jackson, Issac, you're hitting up Radio Shack and Walmart on tech support. We need surveillance cameras, internal and external, monitors, and disposable phones. Isaac, you're our tech guy, so I'm leaving the specifics up to you. Think you can handle it?” 

Isaac straightened, the cogs in his mind already turning, but he looked excited. “Yeah. I got this.” 

“Great. Ethan and I are going to the hardware store. Erica, you're on watch. Danny, I want you clearing out the attic. Just get everything against the walls, clearing a space before each window, then dust, and sweep.” 

Danny pursed his lips, but offered a terse nod. 

“Be back here in an hour and a half, no excuses. No one eats, drinks, or separates for any reason while they're gone, understand?And if anyone sees a hunter or feels threatened, stop what you're doing and get home.”

When Derek handed out the lists and a somewhat disturbing quantity of cash, he also distributed three sets of keys. Lydia frowned as she examined a set. “These aren't mine.” 

“No. I'm driving your SUV, you've got Erica's car, and Jackson and Isaac are in my rental.” 

Jackson guessed, “So you can haul the hardware shit?” 

“No, genius,” Lydia said. “So we don't have access to any weapons hidden in our cars.” 

Derek bared his teeth. “I'm smart, too.” 

***

The dollar store was, surprisingly, fun. Lydia shared his love of organization and color coordinating, and had seemingly left her attitude at home. He considered the trip an overwhelming success when he found the exact right coffee maker—having asked Derek to rent a blowtorch from the hardware store. Fingers crossed, renting blowtorches was a thing. That everyone knew of his plan, that Lydia stood behind him while he bought the coffee pot, felt a little off. But whatever. 

The trip to Trails was easy, almost pleasant. Still, his mind was so focused on Lydia that he didn't notice the Argent's vehicle on the street. When he walked in and saw Chris and Victoria standing before a line of guns, he noticed that. 

“Come on.” 

Lydia grabbed his arm and tried to drag him out the door. But Victoria was already staring, her eyes pinched and nasty, and he couldn't make himself leave. Instead, he grabbed his phone, snapped a picture, and sent it to his father. When his phone rang a second later, he flashed a grin at Victoria and answered. 

“Sheriff?” 

“What's going on, Stiles?” 

“Nothing much. Just letting you know I'm here with the Argents. Call me back in twenty minutes.” 

“You're a pain in my ass, kid.” 

“Love you, too, Dad.” 

“Be careful, Stiles!” 

Lydia looked pissed, but followed him—step for step—as he walked to the gun wall. Chris's attention had been drawn by that point, and he looked as pissed as Lydia. Not as murderous as his wife, but frustrated and annoyed. 

Stiles heard the third man approaching him from behind, and turned slightly to track his movement. As the large, rough-looking man drew closer, the hunter breathed in deeply and asked, “Anyone else smell wet dog?” 

“Just semen and hand lotion,” Stiles drawled. 

The man snarled at him and Stiles laughed. Didn't mean to, exactly, but he'd been facing off with Derek's fang-filled snarls. The hunter's didn't measure up. 

“Stiles,” Chris warned. 

“What are you doing here?” Victoria demanded. 

Stiles nodded at the guns. “Home security.” 

“Might I suggest a dozen dog crates? Everyone might be more secure.” 

“I'm on guns. A few others are picking up surveillance cameras, for inside and outside the house. We're on lock down, now.”

“Stiles!” Lydia scolded. “What the hell?” 

Looking at Chris, he said, “They've lost people, too. They have a right to know what we're doing to stop these murders. They should know our pack is under Derek's control.” 

“The last Hale standing,” Victoria said, smirking. 

“And me,” Stiles said. “Derek's my mate. I'm family now.” 

Victoria sniffed. “You know, the transition isn't complete. If you died now, God might accept you into the kingdom of Heaven.” 

Stiles blinked, taken aback. The big hunter said, “I'd be happy to help.” 

When Stiles said nothing, Victoria laughed. “Had you not considered your eternal damnation?” 

“Honestly?” Stiles asked, and Chris shook his head. “Allison is so nice and normal, I didn't expect the indoctrination. It's the curse of a rational mind. You expect everyone to think rationally.” 

“There is nothing irrational about monsters being denied salvation.” 

Stiles had nothing. Everyone was entitled to their beliefs—blah, blah, blah—but he typically exited any conversation when religion was brought into it. Because you couldn't argue with religion. That shit was ingrained. By the time people left their teens, they were pretty pot-committed to the idea, years and layers of understanding built atop its foundation. But this conversation was too important to walk away from—even if it wasn't going terribly well. 

“Why don't we let God sort it out?” Stiles offered. “Hate the sin, love the sinner, right?” 

“Funny, how that's the only scripture sinners know.” 

“Let's drop the religious debate, okay? Maybe we can work out some sort of real-world compromise. We're on lock down. No one else will be hurt, and we will identify the killer. I can't speak for Derek, he's our alpha, but maybe we could allow you some assurances? There's only one road leading to the Hale estate, right? What if we let you park a car and monitor our travel? Again, I'm not speaking for Derek, but we could open negotiations?” 

“Maybe we could spread our forces across the perimeter of the woods, to monitor anyone leaving it?” Victoria said. 

Stiles didn't exactly like her tone, but he carefully agreed, “Maybe.” 

“And maybe you could slaughter us one by one.” 

“Look, lady!” 

“Lydia,” Stiles objected. 

“No, Stiles. You've been pack three minutes. You don't know what these mouth breathers are capable of!” As Stiles grimaced, Lydia continued, “If anyone has a right to get up on a high horse, it's us. Your code is a joke. You kill innocent people because they're different. You're bigots and terrorists. And, let me be frank, if we were half as scary as you say, you would have been focused on defense, and maybe your precious family would still be alive.”

The big hunter surged forward. Trapped, Stiles shoved him backward, inwardly giving himself a high five when the bulky man stumbled and fell. He was kinda a bad ass now. No big deal. 

“That's right! Hit the human woman. I dare you! Stiles is a fucking FBI agent. You people know that, right? You push too hard and he'll have an army here! Derek's the alpha of a bunch of soldiers. You want him getting nervous? Make him call in some favors. Please! We'll all sleep better when you psychopaths are dead!” 

“Lydia!” When she opened her mouth again, Stiles clapped a hand over it. Didn't know what else to do. Gulping, he said, “I'm sorry. She wouldn't be at the negotiations. She's a bitch. It's well documented.” 

Victoria glared at them both and announced, “So am I. But I take action, not throw tantrums. Come on. We have enough guns.” 

After the hunters had left, the biggest one turning to grin at Stiles before slapping the bell hanging over the door, Stiles groaned. 

“What the fuck, Lydia? What did that accomplish?” 

“You think they're not attacking us because they're weighing our guilt? That's bullshit. They're not attacking us for one reason. They're afraid. We killed their people when they came after Peter, and they're afraid we'll do it again.” 

“We?” Stiles demanded. “I killed someone. Injured someone else. I don't remember you killing anyone. I remember Peter, Derek, and Scott getting tore up. Jackson wasn't looking so hot either, right? If they attack us, we will win, I have no doubt about that. But people, our people, will get hurt. Maybe die. So excuse me for negotiating peace!”

When she only glared, Stiles shook his head. “Fuck! Derek's gonna be pissed!” 

***

Even after their showdown with the Argents, they arrived home before their deadline. Derek was already back, Ethan and Erica helping him unload all manner of supplies. Stiles saw a giant stack of particle board, some smaller wooden boards, metal chains, metal locks and hinges, several buckets of nails, and power tools—just at a glance. 

Stiles met Derek's gaze when they pulled in and watched his mate visibly relax. Feeling like shit, Stiles dragged a hand down his face and watched Derek's shoulders tighten all over again. The ride home hadn't been pleasant. It was silent, which was nice, but that was all Stiles could say for it. 

And there were three high-powered rifles in the trunk, so his mission was successful—in a sense. 

Derek jerked open the passenger seat and eyed Stiles up and down before asking, “Everything okay?” 

It's not that he would have liked to lie—well, yeah, obviously, he would have liked to lie—but he might have limped into the confession if not for Lydia's big mouth and seeming ignorance of werewolf hearing. But because that wasn't an option, he blurted, “We saw the Argents at Trails.” 

“What happened?” 

“We,” Stiles emphasized the word to hell and back, but kept himself from looking damningly at Lydia, “made it worse. I'm sorry. I tried to help, but I fucked up. I should have listened to you. I'm sorry. Really, very sorry.” 

Derek looked to Lydia all on his own and Stiles huffed out a breath. 

“It's okay. Couldn't make it much worse, anyway.” Derek's hand slid across Stiles' nape and he found himself arching into the caress. “Did you get the rifles?” 

“Yeah. Three. Where do you want them?” 

“Just put the ammo in the safe for now. I'll take them to the attic when it's ready.” 

Stiles nodded and glanced up, at the peak of the house. Now that he was looking, he noticed the window overlooking the front of the house, and would bet money there was a window facing each direction. 

“Making us a perch?” 

“A perch and an escape route. We'll have a chain ladder up there, and the rifles. If they surround us with mountain ash, we'll need to provide cover fire so a human can break it.” Derek lowered his head and added, “Got all the fire extinguishers I could find, too.” 

Understanding the significance, Stiles rubbed a hand along Derek's shoulder and said, “It's a good plan.” 

The sound of Derek's rental reached his ears, and everyone let out a sigh of relief. Derek called, “Erica. Help Stiles move my desk into the heat-room and get things set up.” At her nod, Derek told Stiles, “Don't forget the ammo. I'll be down when everyone's inside.” 

“Thanks for thinking of this. It's perfect.” 

Derek smiled, looking pleased. “You're welcome.” 

***

An hour later, Stiles had the desk situated and had dusted and mopped. The room was kinda brilliant, actually—like his first dorm, but nicer. The majority of the room was taken up by the large bed, but there was a little refrigerator, a small kitchenette, and a bathroom equipped with a shower. He might put a fresh coat of paint on the walls before his first heat, but it had everything he needed. 

And, after a few tests with Erica, he learned that, if he screamed as loud as he possibly could—the word “test” so Derek didn't come running—he could be heard beyond the soundproofing. Which, was a relief. He wanted his privacy, but wasn't anxious to be cornered by a serial killer where no one could hear him scream. He was a wuss like that. 

He had his white boards up again, too many of the same questions going onto the boards. He forewent the yarn, though, feeling guilty for letting his mother's supplies go to waste. Making connections between the pack members was a waste of time. They were all tangled up in each other. But, that did remind him. 

“What's the story behind the 'daddy' thing?” he asked Erica. 

She flopped onto the bed and rolled her eyes. “That's Jackson and Danny. And their homoerotic bromance.” 

Stiles grinned, tempted by the gossip despite the seriousness of the situation. “Have they? Ever?” 

“Literally? Maybe not, I'm not sure. But, okay, here's the deal, they roomed together in college, right? And they had some sort of, I don't even know what you'd call it, frat-douche hunting club? When Lydia's not around they tell stories about screaming contests. You know, where they had sex five feet away from each other and bet on who could make their … partner scream louder. Rapists in training, if you ask me.” 

“Erica! I definitely asked you. I'm looking for killers and you didn't mention the 'rapists in training' theory?” 

“Remember that spreadsheet I filled out? Did you read it?” 

Come to mention it.... “Guess not. Sorry.” 

“Anyway, the 'daddy' thing, I guess it was for extra points. If they could get their conquests to call them 'daddy,' they got a gold star or whatever. Douchebags.” 

Stiles frowned. “I was starting to like Jackson.” 

“It's not his fault,” Erica said, rolling her eyes again. “I mean, it is, he did it. Really, though, Jackson walks around with his chest puffed out, talking about being alpha, but he's submissive as shit. Look how he lets Lydia talk to him. Everyone brings up how much Laura loved him, and they're right. But only because he followed her around like a pup.” 

“You think Danny was the dominant personality?” 

“Oh, for sure. You should have seen Lydia and Danny circling each other when Lydia came back into the picture.” She laughed. “I'm surprised Jackson didn't develop a twitch and start eating his own hair.” 

Stiles was still smirking at the idea when Derek walked in. He was just a little sweaty from all the heavy lifting, and he smelled amazing. Their gazes caught and held, and then turned, in union, to look at Erica. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “Enjoy the honeymoon stage, boys.” 

Flouncing out, she shut the door behind herself and Stiles snorted. “This is the worst honeymoon, ever. Just for the record.” 

Derek lowered his head, making Stiles wish he hadn't spoken the words, but then he said, “Yeah.” 

Stiles could only stare at him, a little overwhelmed at having a single moment of privacy. Though he'd seen Derek every day, had held and kissed him only hours ago, it felt like they'd been separated for weeks. Walking into Derek's arms, Stiles pressed a kiss to his neck and then nibbled on his stubbled chin, strangely happy. 

“I've missed you,” he whispered. 

“It's not usually like this,” Derek said, somewhere between apologetic and defensive. “You get used to the hearing thing, and pack isn't supposed to feel like this. It'll get better, Stiles, I promise.” 

“I know.” He laughed and clung tighter. “I swear, I've got a hundred things to say, but touching you is all I can think about.” 

Derek kissed his forehead, the bridge of his nose, and then groaned and leaned back. “What happened with the Argents?” 

“Nope.” Pulling Derek close again, Stiles said, “We can talk murder and cuddle. A little weird, maybe, but it's so us. Oh! Speaking of weird, I heard all about my self-lubricating ass. Thanks for the heads up, dick.” 

Derek chuckled, the vibrations of his chest shaking Stiles' body. “To be fair, I thought you knew. At first. It's not a secret anymore.” 

“Yeah, well, I'm not exactly keyed in to pop culture, am I?” 

“Guess not. You mad?” 

Stiles shrugged, huffing out a laugh. “Maybe, under normal circumstances, yeah. Right now, it's not even registering on my internal shit meter, you know? People are dead. We're living with serial killers. Evil hunters are trying to kill us. I'm about to turn into a werewolf. And my ass does this odd, but somewhat helpful, new thing.” 

Derek slid a hand down his back, unapologetically cupped his ass, and then pressed his fingers—through denim—against Stiles' hole. Startled and shuddering, Stiles clung to Derek even as his cock hardened. 

“Extremely helpful,” Derek said against his ear, amused pleasure evident in his voice. “Having you ready and desperate for my cock in an instant? I'd call that extremely helpful.”

“Ah ... yeah.” 

What wasn't extremely helpful? The way Derek pulled back with a gentle laugh and a pat to his back when Stiles tried to grind against him. Tease! 

“I can't leave the kids for long.” 

“Right?” Stiles laughed. “I feel like we had a litter or something. Bam! Eight toddlers, some with psychotics tendencies, and no babysitter in sight.” 

Derek's head drooped. “About that. The full moon's coming.” 

“Really? You don't say?” 

“We should lock you in the heat-room. Alone.” 

Stiles startled back, looking around the room in confusion. “What? Why? Did I … why?” 

“You didn't do anything wrong, baby. Come on.” Derek reached for him, but Stiles leaned away, earning himself a low whine from his mate. “Stiles, you know, if I could … but I can't. You're not going to understand consequences, and I'm afraid, smelling you, I won't either. We'll spend the night with you on my knot, and we'll wake up to find someone dead. We have to be smart about this.” 

“I'm tired of being smart!” Stiles growled and thumped his palm against his forehead a few times, trying to knock some sense into himself. “This sucks! I'm not trying to be a big baby or anything, but I'm sick of this. I just want to kill the four of them, bury them in the backyard, and get on with our lives.” 

“Another reason you're getting locked in the basement. If Lydia was trying to instigate a fight, the full moon could be a blood bath.” 

Stiles huffed at him. “You wouldn't let me kill anyone.” 

“Let you? Stiles, if she bates you into attacking, someone will stop you. If it's not me, if someone else puts their hands on you when I've got my mate before me for the first time, it won't be a matter of letting you hurt anyone. I'll rip their throats out, and then where will we be? At best, waking up to four dead bodies. At worst, one of us, or someone we care about, could end up dead.” 

“So,” Stiles rolled his eyes, “we'll be smart about this.” 

“I'm sorry, but we have to. I'll make it up to you, I swear.” 

The silence stretched until Stiles' phone rang—startling them both. Checking the caller ID, he saw it was his dad and frowned at Derek. He had to answer. After the showdown with the Argents, he'd checked in, but gotten only a few grunts and the promise of “big news” coming soon. 

“Hey, Dad.” 

“Stiles! I got the saw measurements back. The pathologist has a werewolf on her team, and they ran some experiments. Even half-assing it, a female werewolf produced deeper cuts. Whoever did the sawing, they were human.” 

Stiles exchanged an excited look with Derek and exclaimed, “That's fantastic! I'm going to test the warming plate here in a minute. If the blow torch can't get the metal hot enough to sear, we're looking at a human with magic, and I'm looking at Danny.” 

“I'm not sure magic is going to hold up in court, son. But there's more. We're having a hell of a time getting DNA on the mates, but your theory got me thinking. Everyone suspected a wolf because claws ripped open the victims' cheeks and legs, right? Well, the pathologist finished with Peter last night and found some foreign material in his leg. It looked like skin and was sent to the lab, but no DNA match. So, I threw the word 'serial killer' around a little and got a rush job on a DNA comparison. The sample found in Peter's leg matches DNA from the first tibia!” 

“Holy shit!” 

Instead of rebuking his choice of words, the sheriff said, “Damn straight! Someone killed those mates, took a tibia, and, somehow, a hand or claws. And the skin found in Peter's leg was in bad shape, kid. Why would anyone risk hauling around a decomposing hand to and from a murder site?” 

“Because they don't have claws of their own.”

When he looked over at Derek, he could swear the world had fallen off his mate's shoulders. He was grinning, the expression bright, relieved, and beautiful. It wasn't a werewolf. 

“My thinking, exactly. We're looking for humans.” 

Stiles looked up at the ceiling and grinned evilly. “Danny and Lydia. I knew it. Well, didn't know it, know it, maybe, but I was getting there.” 

“But all we've got is a lot of circumstantial evidence. Not to be trite, but we need the smoking gun.” 

“No,” Stiles said. “We need the decomposing hand.”


	14. A Desperate Killer

Stiles was sitting at the dining room table with his laptop, doing research while he watched Derek and Isaac install drop-down “shutters” inside each window. Sure, he had an office now, but the view was better upstairs. The view, of course, being Derek's straining muscles and perfect ass. Really, he was getting nothing done, but he was also eating an incredibly late lunch/snack, and everyone was entitled to eat, right? Hearing a car, Stiles had time to lock down his computer before Lydia stormed into the house, Erica on her heels with a murderous expression on her face. 

“Bitch, you want to follow me into the bathroom, too?” Lydia demanded. 

“Call me a bitch again, I dare you. I'll slap that lipstick off your thin lips, and beat Jackson down for an encore!” 

“Erica,” Derek scolded gently, a smile straining his lips. 

“Why?” Lydia demanded, hands on her hips, as she glared at Derek. “Why was your dog parked outside my office all damn day?” 

Oh, because we know you're a nasty, sadistic murderer. But, of course, Derek couldn't say that. What he did say was, “It was a precaution.” 

“Maybe Lydia knows,” Isaac said. Stiles tried sending him flag-on-the-field eyes, but Isaac blithely asked, “Do they put out a monthly real-estate catalog or something? Stiles' dad is thinking about getting a smaller place.” 

Stiles had only bothered with the lie for Jackson's benefit. Now, he wished he'd clued Isaac into the truth. Wished it harder when Lydia's eyes narrowed. See, the way Stiles figured it, two of the bodies were found at listed properties. If Lydia and Danny needed a place to keep their body parts and brew their potpourri—and there was no money trail—a listed property was a great place to start. 

Clearly, he'd hit too close to the truth, because Lydia met his gaze with hard eyes. Though, to be fair, they'd been pretty hard when she arrived. 

“I have no idea,” she said. 

“What about a foreclosure?” Isaac continued on blithely. “Wouldn't your bank have a list of those?” 

“That's a great idea, Isaac,” Stiles said, grinning hugely. “We'll check out foreclosures. I think I'll call the bank and abuse my FBI status to get a list.”

“Lydia could get it tomorrow,” Isaac said. 

“I'm impatient.” Stiles shrugged, feeling wicked. “It's a problem.” 

Derek cleared his throat. “Stop distracting Isaac, baby. Go to your office.” 

“Consider me gone.” 

***

Derek walked in a few minutes later, looking annoyed. “I wish you hadn't done that.” 

“I know.” He couldn't help his grin. “I didn't mean to.” 

“Peter was a born wolf, Stiles. And far more powerful than you. Don't underestimate them.” 

“Sorry.” He stood and stretched. “Really. I'll behave. I'm just relieved this is almost over.” 

“Nothing's over until they're behind bars. A desperate killer is a dangerous killer.” 

“I'll be good. Swear.” 

Derek groaned, but flopped onto the bed. Not needing an invitation, Stiles crawled on top of him and sighed, the world right again. Or … he rolled onto his back and tugged at Derek's shoulder, strangely fulfilled when his mate's weight settled atop him. 

“God, why do I like this so much? You're heavy.” 

“You're a little helpless. Pinned down.” Derek nuzzled at his neck. “You're submitting to me.” 

“Am not,” Stiles mumbled. 

Derek snarled, his eyes flashing red, and Stiles felt his body arch, his neck falling to the side. Chuckling, Derek peppered his neck with kisses. It was oddly playful. Sweet, even. 

So, of course, Stiles had to ruin it. Lunging, he nipped at Derek's chin. When his mate only grumbled, Stiles nipped again, catching Derek's pouting lower lip between his teeth. He broke skin, which was mostly an accident, but got Derek's attention. 

Twining a hand into Derek's soft hair, Stiles dragged his mate's head back. He pressed his mouth into the curve of Derek's neck, snarling and growling. He didn't bite—had no intentions of it—but it was a challenge Derek couldn't ignore. 

Rearing back, Derek grabbed him by the shoulder, flipped him onto his stomach, and then draped himself across Stiles' body. When he pinned both of Stiles' hands above his head with one of his own, Stiles writhed and fought. Not in earnest. There was nowhere he'd rather be, but he forced Derek to still his struggles, to hold him down. 

He didn't know why. Didn't know where these desires were coming from. Why it felt like foreplay and a promise, but it did. 

Stiles strained and fought with everything he had, but couldn't budge an inch. The knowledge felt so fucking delicious, he wanted to purr. 

“Your wolf's a needy thing,” Derek said against his ear. 

Shivering, Stiles said, “Probably horny.” 

Derek hummed. “I should have fucked you a dozen times by now.” 

“Yes.” 

“I should be holding you immobile with my knot.” 

“Derek,” he whined. “You can't say shit like that. Not if you can't follow through.” 

Chuckling, Derek asked, “Because it turns you on?” 

“Duh! I was a happy little nerd before I met you, but you, like, flipped the switch. All I can see is every porn and every smutty story I've ever read, all cast with your face. But somehow, I'm still horny. All the time.” 

“Sounds like you're an authority,” Derek said. “Tell me, what do you want? When we've finished this, and I can keep you in bed all day, what do you want?” 

“I want you to fuck me.” 

Derek nipped at his neck, making Stiles go pliant. “Be more specific.” 

“I want....” Stiles laughed. “God, everything. I want to blow you, slowly. I want to lick your … I want to rim you.” 

“You want to lick my ass?” 

Embarrassed, Stiles nodded. “I've never. But it felt so good. I want to hear you. I want to touch and kiss you everywhere. Your feet, and knees, and stomach, and elbows. I want you to beg for me. I want to beg.” 

Derek nosed at his ear, exhaling moist breath and exciting nerves Stiles didn't know existed. Whispering, Derek said, “Be more specific.” 

“I want you to tie me down. So it's like this, like I can't move because you won't allow it. And I want you to tease me. Blindfold me. Scare me, Derek. Just a little. I want to shake and hurt. Then you'll fuck me, hard.” 

Derek closed blunt, human teeth around Stiles' earlobe. “What if, I scare you with a growl. All animal, Stiles. A real one. What if, once you're tied down and blindfolded, the tongue that licks you is wide and rough?” 

“Derek?” 

“What if, the tease is my fur sliding against your naked body?” 

Stiles blinked. “You want to … lick me as your wolf.” At Derek's hum of confirmation, Stiles said, “But, I mean, that's—”

“Me, baby. Whether I have two legs or four, that's me. Me wanting to make you feel good.” 

The words stirred him, though he thought maybe they shouldn't. Fidgeting, he said, “Maybe? Can I go with maybe?”

“Of course.” Derek leaned down to kiss the nape of his neck. “But consider this, do you not want it, or do you not think you should?” 

“I'm pretty sure I shouldn't.” 

Derek chuckled and rolled to the side. “Just putting it out there. It feels natural to me, so if it ever starts feeling natural to you, just ask.” 

As confused as he was, his dick hadn't gotten the memo. The ebb of sexy talk made him want to whine and beg. How could he be mated to the most gorgeous man on the planet and still be constantly frustrated? It was torture. 

“You know what would feel natural to me?” he cajoled. 

But Derek was standing, moving toward the door. “I have to get back.” 

“Yeah, that's basically the opposite of my plan.” 

Derek turned at the door. Smirked. “I know. Get back to work.” 

***

Stiles ran up the stairs two at a time—he could do that now. At the top of the stairs, a mouthwatering scent hit him and his stomach gurgled in appreciation. Was that? It couldn't be. Entering the combined living room and dining room, he got a look at the table and couldn't decide if he wanted to drool, cry, or make sweet, sweet love to the racks of ribs. 

“Is that venison?” he asked. 

“From your deer,” Allison said, coming out of the kitchen. “Roasted carrots and potatoes, baked beans, coleslaw, and macaroni salad. I know we just had some, but it's not barbecue without macaroni salad.”

Jackson demanded, “So get your ass in a chair, dude.” 

He practically skidded around the table, eyes wide and bright. Yummy. 

Derek carved the ribs, divvying them out as people passed their plates. Frankly, Stiles suspected it had less to do with alpha dominance and more to do with keeping the peace. Then again, maybe that was the alpha's purpose. 

Whatever. That wasn't the point. The point was, one bite of the ribs and his eyes rolled back in his head. When he tried the beans, he groaned. “Oh my god! You, like, made these. Like grandmas do.” 

“It's called cooking, Stiles,” Erica said around a mouthful of ribs. “Don't have to be a grandma to cook.” 

“No, but they're the best at it. And this is awesome!” He took another bite and got a chunk of bacon. Dear god. “I'd ask you to teach me, but your magic is expansive and unknowable.” 

“Stop.” Laughing, Allison waved him away as her cheeks reddened with pleasure. “I just doctored them a little. But thanks.” 

Stiles gave her a meaningful look. “No. Thank you.” 

Derek jabbed a finger into Stiles' cheekbone, leaving a smear of sauce behind. “Eat.” 

Wiggling his eyebrows at his mate, Stiles asked, “Jealous?” 

“I make good ribs,” Derek muttered, ducking his head. 

“Aw. Sweetheart—”

“Do not,” Erica snapped, “ruin this.” 

After sticking his tongue out at her—what? He's not allowed to be happy? —Stiles dove back into dinner. Silence fell. Well, not literal silence. Silverware scraped. People asked for dishes to be passed. Someone growled at one point. But mostly, everyone was super involved in eating the feast laid out before them. 

When most everyone was done—Jackson and Danny seemingly battling over who could eat more beans—and leaning back in their chairs with mixed expressions of deep satisfaction and a little regret, Allison cleared her throat. 

“So, I was wondering, when do you think Scott's coming back?” 

Stiles kept his eyes down, fastidiously not looking toward Lydia and Danny. Derek said, “Pretty soon, I think.” 

“Could I talk to him, at least? With the full moon coming ... I know Scott. He needs to hear my voice.” 

“After dinner,” Derek said. 

“Really? Thank you!” 

She was out of her chair and throwing her arms around Derek an instant later. Looking extremely uncomfortably, Derek patted her on the back. Stiles beamed. All warm and tingly at seeing his mate being appreciated. Derek was a good alpha. A good mate. Just good. Derek was good. 

*** 

An hour after dinner, Stiles was back in his office, feeling triumphant. He had a map of Beacon Hills spread across his desk, red push pins marking foreclosures Lydia's bank was dealing with, other rentals in blue. The crime scenes were green, and he had a red circle drawn onto the map to indicate the space between the two rental properties used for murders. The path between the Hale estate and town was circled in yellow. Come morning, he'd have the properties listed in descending order of probability for his father to investigate. And if he could color coordinate them, he would. 

He leaned back in his chair, daydreaming about solving the case before the full moon and spending it in Derek's arms. 

There was no smoke. No hint of warmth. The abruptness of the attack would stay with him forever, a cautionary tale in his own mind. When the worst happened, there was no warning. 

He was swimming in satisfaction. The bed was on fire. It didn't lick gently or spread in a wave. It erupted into a blazing inferno, a blast of heat knocking him from his chair. The fire alarm blared. By the time he scrambled to his feet, an instant later, the walls were on fire. 

Adrenaline forced his fangs free, forced his eyes to pulse and his vision to sharpen. The deafening shrill of the alarm and the details of the fire, the strange variations in color his sight afforded it, disoriented him. He leapt for the door, ignoring the fire twining ever closer, and twisted the knob viciously. Nothing happened. He twisted harder and the metal snapped off in his hand, but the door didn't budge. 

“Derek!” he bellowed. 

But, as he listened for a response, he heard more alarms, from upstairs. Alarms and screams. Not the screams of people coming to his rescue. Screams of confusion and fear. 

Stiles fumbled for his phone. Hitting his speed dial, he dropped to the floor. Each ring was an eternity of torture. 

“Stiles?” his dad answered. 

“Hale estate!” 

“Stiles! What's wrong?” 

“Fire! Bring backup. There might be mountain ash.” He coughed, shoved the sensation away with a snarl, and continued, “Someone has to break the line.” 

“I'm coming!” 

“Bring backup, Dad!” 

The line went dead. Blinking against the panic threatening to overwhelm him, Stiles rose and lunged for the fire extinguisher. Derek had placed it in the corner last night as Stiles smiled softly, patronizingly. Now, he'd never been happier to have an object in his hand. 

Yet, as he unleashed blast after blaster of the white foam, the fire only dimmed for an instant before flaring back to life. Like demonic trick candles. Trick candles putting off enough heat to scorch his skin. Enough smoke to steal the breath from his lungs. 

Stiles ran for the door, slamming his shoulder against it. Hard. Something crunched and ripped, but it wasn't the door. Ignoring the pain, he repeated the action again and again. Nothing!

Fire licked at the sound-proofing panels on the walls, but Stiles saw concrete beneath. The blanket of smoke hovered only inches above his head, filling the room fast. He kicked the bed, satisfied when his strength sent it clattering against the wall. Backing up, he ran at the wall. His throbbing shoulder hit the concrete with a crack, and Stiles backed up, eyeing the crack like a lifeline. Charging the wall, again and again, the crack grew. Concrete crumbled. Metal rebar became visible. 

“Fuck! Derek!” 

He clenched both hands around the metal, braced his feet on the wall, and thrust himself backward. The metal pulled concrete from the wall before snapping off in his hand. Sprawled across the hot floor, Stiles scurried back to the wall and pounded at the growing hole with the metal bar. 

“Stiles!” 

A slam came from the other side of the wall. Stiles almost collapsed, his body trembling with adrenaline. As the wall shook with each impact from the other side, ceaseless and in tandem as several wolves surged forward, Stiles yanked at the other bars of metal, trying to clear space for his escape. 

Smoke forced him to his knees, the strength slowly leaching from his body as his clothes turned hot against his skin. Waves of dizziness crashed and withdrew, his wolf struggling to keep him conscious. Then Derek slammed through the wall. Stiles had only a moment of relief, and then the cross breeze was feeding the flames, fire surging higher even as the smoke rushed at him. 

Crawling forward, blind and coughing, he dragged his belly across the rough cement. A piece of metal caught his side, slicing inch by inch as he ignored the pain and forced himself forward. Hands grabbed him and yanked him through. 

Even as he landed in a heap on the other side, he was curling in on himself, the long, gaping wound in his side exploding with pain. 

“Stiles!” 

Derek dragged him upright, clutching him tightly. It hurt. 

“Go!” Erica yelled. 

Boyd snarled his agreement, gripped Erica's shirt, and hauled her toward the stairs. Derek pushed and shoved him in their wake as Stiles stumbled to keep up. 

Smoke twined about their heads, getting thicker as they ran up the stairs. At the top, Stiles stalled, only moving again when Derek wrapped an arm around his waist and dragged him. Fire. Everywhere he looked, flames were devouring Derek's home. Water rained from the sprinkler system—useless. Even as Stiles' eyes stung and his lungs spasmed and ached—even as his heart hammered a frantic beat of run, run, run—he mourned. 

“Stiles!” Derek screamed, slapping him across the face. 

Reeling, he nodded. Right. Things could be replaced. Not people. Isaac turned at their approach, his shoulder bleeding from his attempts to batter down the front door. 

“Windows! Doors! It's impossible!” 

“The wall!” Erica yelled. 

Not waiting, she broke into a run and slammed against the wall, shelves and knickknacks shattering across the floor. Erica, too. She went down in a heap, the wall undamaged. 

Stiles grabbed Derek's shoulders, squared him toward a windowless wall, and then scurried to kick the sofa out of the way. Not needing further instruction, Derek charged the wall. Impacted. The drywall cracked clear to the ceiling. Boyd hit an instant later. And then Isaac. Erica. 

Stiles turned as people came clattering down the stairs. Ethan and Jackson were hunched and coughing, stumbling forward. 

“We can't get in!” Jackson screamed, looking frantic. 

“Where's Allison?” Stiles demanded. 

“With Lydia and Danny! They got out before the door sealed!” 

Stiles snarled at him. Clueless bastard.

Derek broke through the wall, but bounced backward, clattering across the living room floor. Erica ran at the space, but pulled up short to bang against the invisible barrier. Finally, she dropped her hands and shook them out, grimacing. 

“Mountain ash!” Derek bellowed. 

“Listen!” Stiles strained his ears. Beyond the fire alarms, beyond the deafening sound of fire, he heard sirens. “Help's coming!” 

“Not soon enough.” Lydia strode into view. Lagging behind, Danny hauled a bleeding and struggling Allison, his face pinched in concentration. 

“Lydia!” Jackson yelled. “Help us! Break the line!” 

“They're doing this!” Stiles shrieked, then bent over, coughing until his throat blazed with searing pain and blood splattered onto the ground along with a chunk of thick, black phlegm. “Fuck.”

“Derek,” Lydia called. “On your knees. On your knees, or everyone dies. Jackson, kill him.” 

“What the shit, Lydia!” Jackson yelled. 

Fire slithered across the wall beside them, making Derek cringe back. The people outside flickered in and out of focus, the smoke rushing to escape even if they couldn't. 

“On your fucking knees!” Lydia screamed, brandishing a kitchen knife. “Or I'll kill Allison first. And I'll leave the rest of you to die! Do what I say and everyone else lives.” 

Stiles watched Derek shift forward and back again, a ceaseless growl rumbling in his throat. When he looked back at Stiles, for all his teeth were bared, his eyes were tortured and sad. 

“Don't do it!” Stiles struggled to Derek's side and bared his teeth at Jackson. “She might let Jackson and Ethan live. No one else. She's lying!” 

“But I'm not. We can take your memories. Ask Ethan. He's got more holes in his memory than a heroine addict. Make Jackson alpha, Danny will take your memories, and everyone will live. Or, Derek, cling to your strength. You'll live long enough to watch everyone you love die.” 

The sirens grew louder. Loud enough that Lydia turned her head, snarling. 

“Jackson, do it!” 

Derek looked down at him, his expression twisted with horror. Stiles shook his head. “Your death is my death. Help is coming. Don't you fucking dare.” 

“Hold her steady,” Lydia said, and turned to Allison, raising the knife. 

“No!” Erica screamed. 

A shot rang out. Even with the symphony of noise already assaulting his ears, Stiles cringed back. He didn't see the bullet land. But when he looked back, Lydia was on the ground, a gaping hole in her forehead. 

“Fuck!” Jackson screamed. “No!” 

Stiles looked for the shooter—looked for his dad. But what he saw was the big hunter from the gun store running toward Danny. The sirens were nearly atop them. Stiles rocked, back and forth, trying not to breathe even as he hyperventilated.

“Stay back!” Danny screamed, bending to retrieve Lydia's knife. 

The instant his attention was fractured, the fire dimmed. The sprinklers started doing their job. And Danny was shot in the head. Allison blinked, spared one second to wipe Danny's blood from her shock-ridden face, but it was the only second she had. By the time she lunged for the mountain ash, the hunter was there, hauling her backward. 

“You want Scott's bitch back alive? Come and get her!” He drew a long, wicked-looking hunting knife, wedged it between Allison's ring finger and her pinkie, and started hacking. Allison screamed as the wolves raged against the barrier. Blood spurted as her pinkie finger fell to the ground. “She's not an Argent anymore. No cops! Or we'll kill the bitch.” 

He threw her over his shoulder and ran, Allison still screaming. 

Stiles blinked and turned back to the pack. Jackson was on his hands and knees. Ethan was standing, a dazed look on his face as he stared at Danny's body. Erica was pacing and raging. Boyd and Isaac were battling the fire. When Stiles looked to Derek, his mate was expressionless. He stood like that, wooden and broken, until the cruiser arrived, the fire truck only minutes behind.


	15. Caffeine and Prozac

You know what cops hate? Finding two dead bodies, and watching four werewolves flee the scene, growling and howling as they disappear into the woods. Cops hate that. Luckily, Stiles had waved his arms around, screaming “FBI” and “I'm the sheriff's son!” until the manhunt was called off. 

He left the officers when he heard a commotion from the firemen. The house was still smoking, parts of it ablaze. Ethan was milling near the treeline, looking like he wanted to escape but couldn't put forth the effort. 

“Get out of there!” a firefighter screamed. 

“Damn it, I'll get him.” 

“Don't! He could bite. Look at him.” 

Stiles hurried to the front door, elbowing one of the firefighters out of the way. He wanted to get persnickety about their attitudes. Yet, as he walked back into the burning building, eyeing the ceiling suspiciously—it was charred, but seemed roughly stable—he edged closer to Jackson carefully. He'd heal, even if Jackson did bite him, but the stillness of the other wolf made Stiles' pulse hammer. 

“Jackson!” Stiles tried to get his attention, not wanting to surprise Jackson. When he didn't react, Stiles gripped his shoulder and shook him. “They need to handle the fire. Come on, Jackson.” 

“It's ruined, anyway,” Jackson droned. “Everything's ruined.” 

It was. Everything was ruined. Maybe some bare bones could be salvaged, but Stiles wouldn't bet on it. Either way, it wasn't inhabitable. It made him think of Derek's room. The last remnants of his adolescence—his childhood already gone. And the pictures of Laura on the mantle. Fuck. He'd have to put Derek back together with duct tape and super glue after this.

“Move, damn it!” a firefighter called. 

Growling, Stiles bent, got a good grip around Jackson's shoulders, and lifted. He half dragged him outside, Jackson making no effort to get his feet beneath himself. Just let himself be dragged, limp. 

He'd better buy super glue in bulk. Because the battle was done, and they'd kinda won, but where did they go from here? Shock. The manic giggle rattling in his throat and the Buffy lyrics? He'd call that shock. Lowering Jackson to the grass, far from the bodies, Stiles thought of Allison. She should be here for this. Allison would know what to do—would be doing it better. But Allison was probably in someone's trunk by now, blood seeping from her severed pinkie. 

Which left Stiles. He was the alpha's mate. Maybe he wouldn't be making cookies—except at Christmas, obviously, he wasn't a heathen—but he had responsibilities. Derek had lost Peter only days ago, and now he was chest-deep in a flashback of the worst days of his life. Derek had a war to plan. Stiles would be there every step of the way, of course, but there was still a gaping hole of responsibility. Someone had to see Derek through this, and someone had to drag the pack back together. Stiles barely knew Jackson, and knew Ethan not at all—he'd be happy to stand aside and let someone else lead. But there was no one. It had to be him. 

Walking to Ethan at the treeline, he eyed the ground for broad leaves. The cops were keeping their distance from the bodies, for now—waiting for the sheriff. Which left Stiles precious little time to get the finger before they investigated. He'd risk withholding evidence from the local PD if it bought them time. He had the CIA and the FBI, after all … probably. Technically the serial killers were dead and the case was over, but … ah! A leaf. 

Touching Ethan's shoulder, he felt the wolf tense. “Ethan? I'm so sorry. But I need your help. Can you help me, please? Ethan?” 

He turned slowly, like some horror movie where the revealed face would be missing eyes or skin. Ethan wasn't missing either. Just a flicker of humanity. His expression was cold, but no longer numb. Instead, he looked like a tortured, cornered animal. Shock and fear gone. Mercy gone. In their place, was a fierce recklessness to bring pain, to triumph. He looked like a man about to make some very bad decisions. Stiles knew the feeling.

“Ethan, stay with me, please. We will get through this.” When the words failed to get a response or change his expression, Stiles dredged up the voice Erica responded to. “Help Jackson to Derek's cabin. Wait for me there.”

His expression changed then—morphed into a savage snarl. But Ethan squared his shoulders and trudged forward. Everything changed as he helped Jackson to stand. Suddenly, the two men were clinging to each other, Jackson crying as Ethan rubbed his face along Jackson's neck, a low growl rumbling in his throat all the while. 

Stiles crouched down, making a show of burying his face in one hand—it didn't take much acting—and plucking a large leaf from the ground with the other. Standing, he kicked around the yard, making his way toward the bodies slowly. Crouching again, he stared at Lydia's body too long. Much longer than he wanted to. It wasn't pretty. The shooter must have been in a tree, because the entrance wound was at the back of her head, but the exit wound was just beneath her nose. It was almost fitting, or ironic, or whatever. The gaping hole where her mouth should have been? It was almost fitting. Yet, he felt no satisfaction. Just resentment and frustration—weariness.

When he stood, the finger was in his pocket. There was unexplained blood everywhere, but what did the hunters expect him to do? Buy enough time for everyone who knew the truth to be killed. That's what the hunters expected. Because this was clearly a trap. If he believed Derek had found her—that he was walking into a minefield as Stiles stood here—he'd be panicked. 

Or maybe not. Maybe he didn't have any panic left in him. 

As he trudged toward his and Derek's cabin, a cruiser skidded into the driveway. His dad leapt out, leaving his door open as he ran for Stiles. 

“I'm okay.” 

“Stiles!” 

He shuddered as his dad's arms closed around him. The hug was tight and desperate. Something brittle and breakable made its way to the surface of his psyche, and Stiles pressed his face into his dad's neck. Breathing in deeply—or trying to—he managed only to choke himself, his nose clogged with smoke and soot. He coughed and hacked, tears filling his eyes. 

Pulling away, the sheriff asked, “Son?” 

“Be very glad I have werewolf lungs.” 

He tried out a smile, but his dad was having none of it. Shaking Stiles none-too-gently, he charged, “You scared me to death! Damn it, Stiles.” 

“You saved us, Dad.” And nope, he was not going to cry. “The sirens saved us. Thank you.” 

“Shut up.” 

His dad cuffed him on the back of the head, then squeezed him even more desperately. When John finally pulled away, it was with a shuffle and a gruff clearing of his throat.

“So, that's them, then?” He nodded toward the bodies. “They confess?”

“Yeah. Too little time for a full-blown, super-villain monologue, but they confessed.” 

“Where's Derek?” 

And wasn't that the question? Stiles looked to his own cabin, but decided against it. Isaac and Jackson didn't need to hear this conversation. So, he walked to the nearest cabin—Boyd and Erica's—and slipped inside, thankful it wasn't locked. His dad hesitated before following, but he did. A big, tired groan his only complaint. 

Once inside, John said, “This looks shady, kid.” 

“This is shady.” Stiles held out his hands to halt his dad's rebuff. “Allison's been abducted. They said no police involvement. Which, normally, yeah, is bullshit, but the Argents aren't stupid. I'd be surprised if they didn't have someone on the force, and if they get cornered, their only play is to kill her.” 

“Wait.” He ran a hand over his face. “Are you sure she's not involved? She is an Argent.” 

Stiles pulled out the wrapped finger and shoved it in his father's face, inappropriately amused when the gruff man took a startled step backward. Laughing softly, he shook his head in apology. Exhaustion and shock were making him stupid. When this was over, he'd sleep for a month. 

“Sorry. But, yeah, that's her finger.” He gave his dad a quick recap of events, ending with, “And Derek's out there, now. Trying to find her. Hopefully they get back soon.” 

“Because it's a trap?” 

“We fortified the house. I fucking, sorry. I told them that. Wherever Allison ends up, it'll probably have wolfsbane in the sprinklers and a minefield out front.” Head hanging, he muttered, “This is a nightmare.” 

John clapped him on the shoulder. “Can't catch a break, can you, kid?” 

If he let himself wade into the despair he felt lapping at his ankles, he might drown in it. So, Stiles squared his shoulders and said, “So, here's how we play this. Please? Just, the serial killers are dead. Yay! Donuts and coffee for everyone. Issue a press release. An unidentified shooter prevented a mass slaughter, likely in self defense. We want people thinking, 'good riddance,' you know? You'll find blood splatter that can't be attributed to Lydia or Jackson. I'm not saying don't run it, I'm just saying, no hurry. Okay?” 

“You tampered with evidence, Stiles.” 

He laughed. Professional integrity. Felony charges. Those were important things, once. “Let's just hope that never comes up.” 

“Fine. Do you need anything?” 

“Chris Argent's number. Text it to me, as soon as possible.” Bouncing a little, he plastered on a manic smile and said, “Now, I've got two crazed werewolves I need to … deal with.” 

“How are they taking it?” His look of sympathy blended seamlessly into one of suspicion. “You're sure this is over?” 

He shrugged. “As sure as I can be. Jackson, definitely. Ethan … yeah, I'm sure. Serial killers, out. Hunters, at bat.”

“Call me when you find her, you hear? This is a hostage situation. Not a war.” 

He wanted to agree immediately, but there were too many questions. Too many unknowns. Finally, he settled on, “I'll do my best.” 

“The Argents have powerful allies, Stiles. And there's only so much I can ignore. Get this on the books so I don't have to arrest you.”

“Yeah.” He shut his eyes, nodding. “Sounds like a plan. Now, get going. We've got work to do.” 

“Be careful, son.” 

“Go easy on the donuts, old man.” 

Stiles walked into his cabin—carrying handfuls of Boyd's clothing—to find Jackson and Ethan sitting on the sofa, staring at nothing. Unfortunately, Ethan's dark expression had spread to Jackson's face. Shit. He shouldn't have left them alone. But, at least Jackson wasn't crying anymore? That was good. Right?

As he drew nearer, they both looked to him. The hardness he saw wasn't aimed at him. If anything, both wolves looked questioning, as if awaiting instructions. 

“Okay, guys, this sucks, and we have a lot to talk about. But first, I need to call my boss and keep everyone from getting arrested. So, your job is to drink tons of water, take showers, breathing as much steam into your lungs as you can, and get your noses working again. Okay?”

Jackson dropped his head, nodding. But before Stiles could take a step away, he whispered, “I didn't know. I never wanted to be alpha. Not really.” 

When Jackson's body angled toward him, his neck subtly bared, Stiles moved closer on instinct. Resting his hand on the back of Jackson's head, his hesitant fingers began to pet when the distraught man arched into the touch. 

It made him think. Everything he'd ever learned about werewolf culture said they craved contact and touched frequently. But this pack didn't. It was a side effect of their suspicions of each other, he realized. He hadn't noticed before because he wasn't much for casual contact—being an only child, and essentially asexual for much of his life. But now … he couldn't lie and say it came naturally, but he couldn't lie and pretend it wasn't welcome, either. He pressed a little closer, warmth blossoming in his chest when Jackson pressed his head to Stiles' stomach. 

“We're going to get through this,” Stiles found himself saying. “We're all here for you. Both of you. We're going to survive this.” 

“I'm going to get Allison back,” Ethan said. 

He didn't look ready for comfort or soothing words, but Stiles clapped a hand to his shoulder anyway. “Yes. We are.” 

***

So, he wasn't fired and he probably wouldn't be arrested. After listening to his boss groan and snarl for half an hour, that was all Stiles could say. Calls were being made to tie Allison's abduction to hate crimes and domestic terrorism. Another agent, or a team, might or might not be added to the case. Stiles figured, by the time anyone got to Beacon Hills, it'd all be over anyway. One way or another. 

He jumped in the shower, praying the hot water held out—it didn't, but he scrubbed a layer of skin off anyway. As he was pulling on a pair of Boyd's sweatpants, he heard Derek's voice. Hot, awkward tears brimmed and fell. Fuck, he was exhausted. But everyone was safe. 

Everyone except Allison. 

Allison was out there somewhere, probably fucking terrified. Everyone else was just fucked in the head. People were dead, the house was ruined, and part of their pack was missing … the hot water was tapped, they had no food, and people had to sleep somewhere. 

Stiles stared at himself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the face staring back at him. Then, with a deep breath and squared shoulders, he walked into the fray. 

Only, the fray was a lot of depressed werewolves listening to Derek talk on the phone. Through the tinny speaker, Stiles heard Scott screaming. Great. It's not that everyone didn't get it, they did. But Derek had rivers of sweat on his sooty skin and a head too heavy to hold high. 

After he arranged for Scott's return and hung up, Stiles whispered, “I'm sorry.” 

Derek shrugged. “He had to know. When Laura … that was the worst part. Thinking, if I'd gotten back in time....” 

Right. Laura. Stiles hadn't even made that parallel yet. If his mate didn't end up crying in the corner—

“But that's not how this ends,” Derek said, a snarl to his words. “They think they'll trap and kill us. They think, us coming at them is what they want. They're wrong. We're smarter and stronger than they think we are. And we're done. Done playing nice. Done watching our backs. Done letting these monsters live in our town. Before this is over, they're dead or they're gone. This will never happen again!” 

“Fucking right!” Erica shouted. 

The rest nodded along, looking rapt and vicious. Derek turned to him. “The firefighters are leaving. I need to thank them. Take care of everyone.” 

Stiles watched Derek stride from the house, incredibly proud. Filled with new energy, he looked around the cabin. Right. Showers, food, sleeping arrangements. Easy. 

“Erica, Boyd, take Isaac to your place and get showers. Bring some clothes back for Derek when you're done. Everyone's sleeping here, tonight. Haul over your mattress, your blankets. Whatever you have, but we're sticking together. Bring any weapons you have.”

“I've got some knives,” Jackson muttered. 

“Yeah. Me, too,” Ethan said “We'll get them.” 

“Ah … why don't we let Erica and Boyd—”

“Listen, I get it, okay? I fucked the asshole who killed my brother. But I didn't kill anyone, I'm not going to kill myself, and I won't run. Don't make me sit on this fucking couch all night. I need to help!” 

Jackson nodded and shoved to his feet. “This is my fault. I need to fix it.” 

“I was supposed to be watching her,” Isaac said. “You heard what she said to Scott. That she was in good hands, because I never left her side. This is my fault.” 

“And we should have caught them sooner,” Stiles said. “Listen, guys, there's enough guilt to go around. But the only people to blame are Lydia, Danny, and the hunters. They did this. Not us. No one here has anything to prove.” 

When Jackson looked at him imploringly, he said, “Go get the knives. Just, put them in a bag or something, okay? My dad's got enough to explain.” 

***

Stiles cleared his throat three times before hitting “call.” The instant the phone started ringing, he was out of his chair and pacing. Then he ground to a halt as it was sent to voice mail. Glaring down at the phone, he tried again. Got the same results. Four calls later, Chris's annoyed voice snapped, “What?” 

Any number of insults were on the tip of Stiles' tongue, but he reigned himself in. “Chris, this is Stiles. Stiles Stilinski. You know, Derek's mate?” 

“I know who you are, Stiles. What do you want?” 

“Oh, let's see. A new house. Ten minutes alone with my mate. Oh, and Allison back. I mean, I have her finger, but it's not exactly the same.” 

He heard movement, and then a door shutting. “Where's Allison?” 

“That's the final Jeopardy question, isn't it? Sorry. I'm going to drop the attitude, but you kinda pissed me off.” 

“Stiles! Where's Allison?” 

“You have her! The hunters, anyway. That mammoth jackass at the gun shop? He ran out of the woods and abducted her, after hacking off her finger.” 

Chris snarled out a curse. “Why?” 

“We're supposed to come find her. You know, so they can slaughter us. The finger thing was a demonstration of intent, I'd say. He said she wasn't an Argent anymore. Said he'd kill the bitch. So, I figured, this didn't sound like a Chris-sanctioned plan. Am I wrong?” 

“They cut off her finger?” 

“Chris, keep up! We need your help. Where would they keep her? Somewhere isolated, good for a massacre. Anything leaping to mind?” 

He heard more movement, and then the beeping of a car being unlocked. “I'm on my way.” 

“Hey, actually, would you grab a bunch of pizzas?” 

There was a long silence where Stiles could almost hear Chris' teeth grinding. “That's not really my biggest concern, Stilinski.” 

“Well, Argent, our house burned down. We have no food, and I don't want my pack fighting for their lives on empty stomachs. So make it a priority.” 

“Did we … how did the fire start?” 

“Not hunters. Let's just say, Lydia and Danny made a play, and now they're dead. So, hey, no more serial killers. But our last human is down a finger and everyone's losing their shit. Now, get here.” 

He hung up. And, yeah, maybe he could have handled that with less snark, but it felt good. And he haggled food out of the exchange, so … basically, he was a good pack mother. And, whatever the fuck. He didn't have the energy to fight the label anymore. Applying gender stereotypes, he was totally the pack mother. He'd been called worse.

***

Derek had been in the shower three minutes when Stiles barged into the bathroom, already stripping. Shirt and pants off, he pulled back the curtain and stepped in behind his mate. Derek turned to look at him over his shoulder and wordlessly passed the washcloth to Stiles. 

Taking a minute to appreciate Derek's wet back, the muscles flexing with his every movement, and his beautiful, taut ass, Stiles sighed. In any other situation, this would be awesome. He'd press close and let their bodies slide together. As it was, Derek was a long line of tension and weariness. All Stiles wanted to do was cling and kiss, but not for the right reasons. For the same reasons he wanted to wrap Derek in a blanket and press hot soup into his hands. 

He slid the washcloth against Derek's shoulders and whispered, “I'm sorry.” 

“It was only a house, Stiles.” 

“It was your home.” 

“It was insured.” 

Beginning to scrub, he said, “You know what? We're not talking about this now. Right now, you stay strong and get Allison back. You keep everyone alive. But someday, when you can feel this? I'll be right there, feeling it with you.” 

Derek chuckled, his head drooping as Stiles ran soapy fingers over his neck. “As great as that sounds, how about you promise me a someday of blow jobs and picnics? I'll fight for that.” 

Stiles laughed, something shaking loose in his chest. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to the slippery skin between Derek's shoulder blades and rubbed his cheek up and down his mate's spine. There wasn't time to dawdle, but he wrapped his arms around Derek anyway. 

“So many blow jobs,” he promised, chuckling. “You'll be like, 'enough with the blow jobs, already.'” 

“Someday, Stiles,” his voice lowered until it was a deep, sexy growl, “you'll be so bored, you'll beg to leave the house.” 

He made a sound, half whimper and half laugh, and nibbled on Derek's shoulder. “That's the sexiest thing you've ever said to me.” 

Derek ran strong hands along his arms and said, “You know I try.” 

He squeezed extra hard and then reluctantly let go. “I should get out there. Chris is on his way.” 

The muscles in Derek's back tensed, but loosened again as he groaned. “That was a smart play. I'll be out.” 

With a playful slap to Derek's ass, Stiles climbed from the shower and got redressed, feeling as though he'd left the weight of the world behind in that shower. Really, though, Derek was better than caffeine and Prozac rolled together. Stiles' favorite. 

***

Even with ample warning, the pack wasn't happy to see Chris Argent at their door. Which, actually, was pretty hilarious. Because they were delighted by the boxes of pizza he carried, and the conflict was clear on their faces. 

Chris kicked the door shut behind him and demanded, “Is someone going to take these?” 

Erica moved forward, her face clenched in a scowl, and reached for the boxes with a mixture of suspicion and glee. She leaned to one side and then the other, seemingly searching Chris for booby traps, until Chris grunted and thrust them at her. 

“Derek, Stiles, kitchen. Kids, eat.”

And, look at that. Stiles got to eat at the adult table. He grabbed a box of pizza, even as Chris narrowed his eyes, and joined the others in the kitchen. Chris had rolled out a map already and had a pen in one hand. 

“I'm sorry about your house.” Without waiting for a response, he pointed at the map and said, “We've got three properties where Allison might be. Two are more secure. I'd start here,” he circled a spot on the map and numbered it as one, “and then here.” 

Derek found a notebook and set it before Chris. “Can you draw us diagrams of each place? Layouts, defenses, and landscape? Possible ambush positions?” 

Nodding, Chris wrote “one” on top and started drawing, his head bent to the task. 

Going to a cupboard, Stiles pulled out three plates and put a slice of pizza on each. The rest of the pack had foregone such niceties, but there were higher standards at the adult table. He put Chris' plate in his general vicinity, doubting it'd get eaten, and placed Derek's before him with a stern, “Eat.” 

In truth, they'd stuffed themselves on Allison's barbecue for dinner, but that felt like a million years ago, now. And they'd all burned a lot of energy since then. Even as he chewed, his mind was on breakfast. How did you feed werewolves about to march into battle? Nothing too heavy, but there had to be plenty of carbs. Granola bars and Gatorade with a Red Bull chaser? He'd ask Derek. 

Or.... “Are we going in the morning or waiting for the full moon?” 

“Wait for the moon,” Chris answered without raising his head. Seemingly realizing his words could be taken as a trap, he added, “Do what you like, but giving you the option was their mistake.” 

Stiles looked to Derek and said, “If we go in the morning, I can help. Unless—”

“We're going after the moon rises, and you're staying here.” Derek snorted and looked to the living room windows. “Or staying somewhere. Does your dad's place have a basement?” 

“But....” 

“Stiles.” Derek shook his head, looking resolute. “The hunters are counting on us acting like animals and rushing headfirst into a trap. You will, and you'll drag the rest of us down with you.” 

Well, fuck. Did he have to say it like that? So, great. Everyone would go and risk their lives, and he'd howl at the moon from the comfort of his basement. For the first time, Stiles regretted being a werewolf. Then again, he'd have probably died of smoke inhalation if he was human, so … never mind. 

Focusing on what he could do, Stiles asked, “Chris, is your wife … where's Victoria?” 

Bowing his head even further, Chris said, “I haven't seen her in hours. I'd like to pretend she's captured, too, but I don't think so.” 

“You know....” 

Derek said evenly, “We're going to kill her.” 

Chris' hand tightened around the pen, but then he straightened in the chair, his head falling back as he stared at the ceiling. “I got in this to protect my family. If hunters are threatening Allison, we're not on the same side.” He frowned and went back to writing. “When I'm done here, I'll find them and try to end this peacefully. If I fail, you save my daughter. Whatever it takes.” 

Stiles pushed Chris' plate closer to him and urged, “You should eat.” 

***

They'd received Chris' call an hour after he left, confirming activity at position one. The pack had clung to consciousness for hours—waiting. Eventually, Derek had ordered them to bed, everyone gathering in the living room to sleep in a heap of over-warm bodies smelling of worry and loss. 

When Stiles woke up, Isaac was already sitting at the kitchen table, studying the layouts Chris had drawn. He was eating saltine crackers that Stiles knew for a fact were stale. Right. Breakfast. It came after dinner but before lunch … every day. 

In the bathroom, Stiles checked his phone and found five missed calls from his father's house. After trying the house phone and his dad's cell phone and getting no response, he called the station. The officer who answered hadn't seen his dad—no surprise there, he'd taken the late shift after spending the evening dealing with Lydia and Danny's bodies—but offered to go by the house.

“Nah, it's fine. If it was an emergency, he'd have left a message. Or, you know, called you guys. I'll just swing by the house.” 

The office said, “I'll meet you there.”

“You don't have to—”

“I'll meet you there, Stiles.”

He snorted out a laugh but agreed anyway. Werewolf, remember? He didn't need an escort. Though, he did miss his gun. 

After brushing his teeth with his finger—another item for the shopping list—Stiles dressed in his clothes from yesterday. He'd washed their clothes twice, but still smelled smoke as he pulled the shirt over his head. He'd have to buy a few changes of clothes, too. 

When he made it back to the kitchen, Isaac was still sitting there, looking bored and miserable. And basically presentable, so Stiles grabbed him by the arm and nodded toward the front door. After leaving a note for Derek—hoping he'd be back before anyone had a chance to read it—he hopped in the car and started for town. 

“We should have told Derek,” Isaac said, glancing back toward the cabin. 

“He needs his sleep. Relax. I'll borrow a gun from my dad before braving the grocery store.” 

Isaac shrugged his shoulders, still frowning. “I guess.” 

“No one's stupid enough to attack a Fed at Walmart, man. Not even hunters.” 

When Isaac only shrugged again and spent the trip surveying their surroundings—looking for the imaginary car that was not following them—Stiles made a mental grocery list. A couple minutes later, he spotted his dad's cruiser in the driveway as he pulled up. The helpful officer was parked in the other space, so Stiles found a spot on the street. 

“Hey,” Stiles greeted as the cop climbed out of his cruiser. “Thanks for the back up, Officer....” 

“Grady.” The man smiled. “No problem, son. I've always wanted to see the sheriff in his pajamas.” 

Stiles chuckled. “It's quite the sight.” 

Leading the way inside, he heard the door shut behind them. Then, a strange scent hit his nose. “Is that—”

“Run!” Isaac yelled. 

And he did, straight for the scent of his father's blood. Behind him, he heard the muffled pop of gunfire, the weapon equipped with a silencer. Isaac's scream wasn't muffled. At the entrance way to the living room, he paused, looking between his bound and bloody father, hunters surrounding his still form, and a writhing Isaac. He heard the snap of a bowstring. Leapt to the side. 

“Don't kill that one, idiot!”

That one. That one. Isaac! Making a snap decision, Stiles surged toward his fallen packmate. It hurt. Running away from his helpless father, it hurt. But he could only play the odds. They might kill his dad. They would definitely kill Isaac. Even as he ran, he prayed the decision wouldn't haunt him. 

The officer had a gun trained on Isaac, eyes squinted in focus as Isaac struggled to stand. Stiles saw his finger tighten on the trigger and leapt. Covering five feet even as a canister of wolfsbane aerosol rattled across the floor—its noxious poison filling the room—Stiles slammed into the cop. His shot went wide. Isaac was on his feet, moving for Stiles. 

But the hunters were coming, arrows and bullets filling the air. Stiles tripped and struggled to his feet, catching an arrow in the shoulder meant for Isaac. 

“Run!” he screamed. 

“Stiles!” 

“Tell Derek!” 

He pushed Isaac forward as a tremendous weight surged against his back, forcing him to stumble. Another hunter threw himself at Stiles' feet. He clattered to the floor. Without the shield of Stiles' body, an arrow grazed Isaac's neck. Stiles screamed and struggled, but the blood flowed. It didn't spurt. 

Head reeling beneath the wolfsbane's influence, Stiles managed a last, whispered, “Run.” 

With a savage snarl, Isaac ran for the kitchen. As the butt of a gun slammed against Stiles' head and the world flickered and faded, he heard the window shatter. He smiled.


	16. Bloodshed

Stiles jerked awake in the back of an industrial van, already struggling to stand. Something hard and heavy slammed into his skull. Stiles stumbled forward, to his hands and knees. Blinking away the pain, he reared back, snarling. This time, he saw the paint can coming. Felt it impact with his nose and teeth, forcing his head back. Rallying his strength, he managed to stay on his knees, but felt like a child's punching bag, wobbling to and fro, weighted down by sand. 

“Stubborn fucker,” someone remarked idly. 

The big hunter from the gun shop grunted. Raising the paint can above his head with both hands, he smashed it into Stiles' head. Something cracked. Stiles collapsed, blood streaming into his eyes, and all he could do was blink. 

Settling into a seated position again, the hunter muttered, “Gonna end up retarded, I keep braining him.” 

“You heard Victoria. No wolfsbane.” The speaker, out of sight somewhere, cleared his throat and added, “I don't think you're supposed to say 'retarded' anymore, though.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Anyway.” the man chuckled, “even animals can scream.” 

The big hunter laughed and nudged Stiles with his boot. “You still awake, dog?” 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles pretended to sleep until he stopped pretending. 

***

He sputtered awake with freezing water running down his face. Thrashing instinctively, he found himself strapped down and immobile. Panic bloomed. Locking his jaw, locking every muscle in his body, he forced himself still. Forced his breathing to slow. The room was cold concrete with a single door and no windows. He was strapped into a sturdy wooden chair, his arms bound behind him and his feet bound to the chair. Standing beside him, holding jumping cables and looking annoyed, was the big hunter. Before him, sitting upon an elegant, high-backed chair like a queen, was Victoria Argent. 

“Still looks bleary, you ask me,” the hunter said. He snapped the clamps on the jumper cables and offered, “Just a little pick 'em up?” 

“That's not necessary, Sean.” 

“But—”

“Silence.” 

Sean—otherwise known as dumb-fucker-Stiles-wanted-to-kill—glared and toyed with the jumper cables, looking like a child denied candy. Stiles strained against his bonds, as subtly as possible, but failed to make any headway. Fear leapt within him, urging his wolf closer to the surface, but Stiles fought it back. Wolfing out wouldn't help his cause, he imagined. 

“Mr. Stilinski—” Victoria began. 

“Please, my torturers call me Stiles.” 

Was that his voice? He didn't remember planning to say that. Yet, part of him was glad he did. Another part was terrified, of course, but he notched his chin into the air anyway. 

“Stiles—”

“Or Special Agent Stiles Stilinski. That's what the FBI will call me when they unleash the full force of the United States government on your ignorant asses.” 

“Yet, as I'm sure we can agree, Agent, you could be dead and buried within the hour. So, shut your filthy, fang-filled mouth. Yes?” 

As if his mind was purposefully contrary, a dozen questions leapt to the forefront of his thoughts. Still, he took her point, and only stared. Beside him, Sean huffed and snapped the jumper cables again. Asshole must have been beaten as a child. Or just born wrong. 

“I'm glad we understand each other. Now, as I was saying, Stilinski, I've done you a favor.” 

Stiles arched a brow. When a response was clearly desired, he prompted, “Oh?” 

“I left your father alive.” She smiled graciously. “I didn't have to, of course, but I can kill him anytime, can't I? My thinking was, I do you a favor and you owe me.” 

“You got parking tickets you need taken care of? I'm your man.” 

“I appreciate your wit, child. Honestly, bravery and a smart mouth in the face of certain death? That's an admirable trait. Under other circumstances, you'd have made a valuable asset within our ranks.”

Under the circumstances of him being batshit crazy? Yeah, he'd have made a great goon. Yet, despite the acidic words floating through his mind, Stiles only smiled—perhaps a little mockingly. “Okay, maybe it's the concussion, but I'm not sure what you want.” 

“Why, I want you to live, Stiles.” She folded her hands over her knees and smiled again. It was no less creepy than the first time. “I want you to behave yourself, so we might allow you to live. You see, if you're half as smart as you pretend to be, we'll both get what we want.” 

Stiles had a hard time believing their goals were at all aligned, but nodded in consideration. “Sounds awesome. But why?” 

“I need you to do something for me. Don't worry. It's very much in your nature.” 

The gleam of her smile seemed subdued next to the cunning shine of her eyes. Stiles couldn't help but fidget, his throat suddenly dry. Fearful once again, he asked, “My nature?” 

“Sean?” She looked to the sadistic hunter. “Please excuse us.” 

“But, Mrs. Argent—”

“Don't make me repeat myself, Sean. Leave.” 

Stiles focused on him as he left the room, readying himself to memorize their secret knock. But Sean only yelled and banged on the door before it opened. Sensing his opportunity, Stiles yanked against his restraints, but earned himself only the burn of rope and the unforgiving press of metal. Alone, Victoria turned to him once again. 

“You, Mr. Stilinski, will kill me.” She flashed a brilliant smile. “Sounds good, yes?” 

It sounded absolutely perfect, but he couldn't shake the terror churning in his belly. “Why? What's the catch?” 

“Every good cause needs a martyr. Surely, you recognize this. My men, other hunters around the country, they've grown hesitant. They see you people integrating into society, and they're ready to believe the worst is over. They're ready to turn your management over to the government. I cannot allow that to happen. For the good of this world, I will not allow that to happen.” 

Great. Back to crazy-pants ideology. Even knowing argument was futile, he said, “Look, Victoria, I know you did good work. Before the government was involved, someone needed to monitor werewolves. You did that. You kept people safe. But we're beyond that now. Most werewolves, all the werewolves I know, they just want to live their lives. They're not bad people.” 

She laughed. A great big belly laugh. Waving her hand at him, completely dismissing his words, she said, “No need to pretend, child. I know your plan.” 

What the fuck was he supposed to say to that? “We don't … please, there's no plan. I'm a good person.” 

“You're not a person!” She stomped in her agitation and leaned forward, suddenly enraged and glaring. “Don't ruin my plan! If you keep lying to me, I'll kill you. And then where will I be?” 

“Okay. Sure. I'll kill you.” He shrugged, unsure. “You'll let me go?” 

“Absolutely.” She giggled. It wasn't a pleasant sound. “You'll like my plan. It's smart. Just like you. Don't tell anyone, okay?” 

Bitch was crazy. He could spin some psychological jargon, but crazy about covered it. Her father and sister were dead, and she'd been driven crazy. Not even the subtle kind. Full on insane-asylum crazy. Like a Batman villain. Helena Bonham Carter would play her in the movie. 

“Who am I going to tell?” 

“Exactly.” She laughed again. “Who would believe you anyway?” 

“No one,” Stiles agreed. 

“Wolfsbane. It's so useful, isn't it? Most people think it's one plant. No variations. But most people are deeply stupid. Some wolfsbane puts werewolves into a coma. Other varieties trigger the transformation or hinder it, holding you in whatever state we choose. Then, there's a very special type. And you, transforming for the first time? It was made for you.” 

When she stopped to gloat, her eyebrows raised as if waiting for his prompting, Stiles obliged. “It does something different?” 

“It strips your humanity entirely. Makes you rabid. Can you imagine?” 

“I'd rather not.” 

“That's what I have here.” She patted her jacket pocket. “I'm going to give it to you.” 

“You don't have to,” Stiles said. “I'll kill you right now. Let's do this.” 

“I wish that were enough. Honestly, I do. I've spent my life protecting people. What I must do now, I take no pleasure in.” 

Stiles frowned, momentarily distracted by the sound of Allison crying. He pinpointed her location, remembering it for later. For when he got out of this chair and could go for her. Dragging his mind back to point, he asked, “So, what are you doing, again? Not that I'm not enjoying the monologue, but bottom line it for me, would you?” 

Victoria huffed at him, squinting dangerously. “These are the last hours of your humanity, Agent Stilinski. Don't waste them on rudeness.” 

“Sorry.” He forced a smile. “How are you planning on torturing me? Please?”

“Condescension is a form of rudeness, wouldn't you agree?” 

Stiles bit his lip, absolutely positive nothing he said would help his cause. He wasn't even sure what he wanted to say, just knew it started with “listen, bitch.” So, he bit his lip and waited. 

“Better.” She offered him a smile, like a dog trainer might offer a biscuit. “Just between you and me, right? You'll kill everyone here, make your way outside—don't worry, I'll leave the door open, you'll hardly be in a position to manage it yourself—and go on a killing spree through the streets of Beacon Hills. I can't promise you'll make it out alive, but you'll have a fighting chance. Sound reasonable?” 

“Not … no. Not even a little bit.” He strained to get free, felt blood seeping from his wrists. “Everyone? Allison's here. I can hear her.” 

She frowned, looking genuinely upset for the first time. “You think I want that? Don't insult me!” 

“You'll let her go?” 

“I said I didn't want it. Sadly, her death is necessary. I don't expect you to understand.” 

“Good, because I don't.” He tried to bite his tongue again, but couldn't manage it. “Look … lady, this is crazy. You want to die, kill yourself. You want me to kill you, because you need a loophole for Jesus? Sure. Sign me up. But I am not a cold-blooded killer. You're doing this! This isn't a werewolf gone wild, this is you acting nuts!” 

“I understand that you're incapable of seeing reason, but there is no need for name calling.” 

“She's your daughter!” 

“Better she dies than breeds more werewolf spawn. She'll get turned, eventually, and her immortal soul will be sacrificed. Don't you see? If I act quickly, I might save her an eternity of hellfire.” 

Stiles snarled, enraged by her calm sincerity. Every one of those arguments he walked away from? He should have stayed and fought. He should have practiced for this exact moment, because he didn't know how to reach her. Didn't know what to say. 

“Please, Victoria. Please! I don't want to kill anyone.” 

“Oh, but Stiles, it's inevitable. I'm choosing the time and place, but you're a killer. You're death incarnate. You will kill, and then kill again. You're infected and need to be put down for the survival of society. I'm teaching people that. Can't you see? You're part of something beautiful.” 

Stiles closed his eyes, exhausted. He wanted to blame the multiple blows to the head, but for whatever reason, he couldn't fight anymore. His mind should be racing, should be conjuring some magical solution or brilliant plan, but he felt helpless. Between the restraints and the chair, he couldn't physically escape. If it required getting through to Victoria, he couldn't talk his way free. Which left him squarely up a creek, sans paddle. 

His only option was Derek. The pack. They knew where he was. They would find him in time, kill the hunters, and he'd spend the full moon in Derek's arms. 

Yes. That's what would happen. Really, Victoria's plan didn't even make sense. Why would a rabid, or whatever, werewolf venture into town? Was that part of the wolfsbane's influence? Would he be drawn to the lights or people? It made no sense. 

He wanted to throw Derek in her face, to proudly declare his mate would come for him, but he swallowed the words. If she hadn't factored Derek into her plan, Stiles wouldn't remind her. Yet, for all she was clearly irrational, she didn't strike him as stupid. 

He was missing something. 

“I can see your mind churning. Not running as smoothly as you'd like, is it?” She snorted. “Drawbacks of becoming a werewolf, child. They're not very smart.” 

Stiles glared. “I'm still blaming the repeated blows to the head.” 

“You can blame the blood loss, if you like.” 

Blood loss? “I … what do you mean?” 

“Not a mark on you, I know. You're missing several liters.” 

“Why?” 

With a sly smile, she stood. “My parting gift, Stilinski. A mind like yours? You should spend your remaining hours with a puzzle.” 

Rolling his eyes, Stiles muttered, “Gee, thanks.” 

She sauntered over, bent close enough that hope flared, but stopped just beyond his reach. “Make no mistake, it is a gift. If you knew the reality of your situation, of the fate awaiting your precious pack, you'd spend your remaining hours sobbing.” 

And, with a final smirk, she turned and left the room. 

***

Torturous hours passed where Stiles could do nothing but track the moon's draw crawling beneath his skin. His hearing was the last weapon available to him, so he listened. Unfortunately, the hunters spoke in hushed tones and in code, leaving Stiles more frustrated than anything. Allison's constant, quiet tears didn't help. Chris was in the room with her, unconscious. She spoke to him occasionally—tearful, desperate pleas. 

Whatever puzzle he was supposed to be piecing together … it was still a puzzle. But there were things that didn't make sense. People weren't coming and going from the house, and there were too few hunters. Not that he wanted more, but many were missing. 

The worst part? Victoria was right about one thing: werewolves weren't that smart. Great at surviving, he hoped, but every minute that dragged by took a piece of his mind with it. In its place, he felt a rising panic at being restrained, a greater need to escape and hunt. 

Whether it was his failing rationality, or his survival instincts kicking in, he was becoming less and less sure Derek would come for him. Something was wrong, he knew that. And the clock was ticking. They'd dose him with wolfsbane before the final transformation took him, and time was running short. He was trapped and he couldn't count on anyone but himself. 

“Okay,” he spoke aloud, almost startling himself after the silence. “It's handling time. Team Stiles. Roll out. Go. Do fucking something.” 

First thing first, he needed out of the chair. Which left him exactly one option. And, really, Allison was down a finger. He could sacrifice a thumb to survive. Werewolf healing being what it was, it might heal anyway. 

He huffed and puffed, bouncing in the chair to amp himself up, and then slammed his left hand against the back of the chair. Sizzling pain exploded, making him curl his back and hiss. Wrong. That crack, it was his wrist, not his thumb. And, fuck! It hurt. 

Every breath felt hot, somehow, his body tingling with pain. Shaking his head, he sucked in a breath and tried again. 

Jesus! No! Bad. Wrong. Bad plan. 

Broken thumb or no—and, no, as of yet—he wouldn't be able to pull his hand free if his wrist was fractured to uselessness. And if his wrist swelled, he'd have a new problem. 

Changing up the angle, even as the turn of his wrist caused tears to swell and fall, he levered the knuckle of his thumb against the metal handcuff. For several seconds, he could only hold the position, panting from fear and pain. He increased the pressure little by little, his wrist unable to take another jarring slam. Finally, the pain in his thumb was near unbearable. He jerked. 

White-hot pain flooded his system, his vision going white. And, damn it, wasn't he a werewolf, now? Shouldn't he be impervious to pain? A total, unstoppable bad ass? Clearly, werewolf badassery had been exaggerated—by a lot. Or, Stiles was a shitty werewolf. There was always that. 

A long minute later, he realized his success. His thumb was broken. Which, yeah, hurt like a bitch, but was also the plan. Unfortunately, breaking his thumb was the easy, painless portion of the plan, as it turned out. Because ropes bound his forearms together, giving him little room to maneuver. Dragging the metal cuff over his broken thumb, his equally broken wrist forcibly bent in the process, was agony unlike anything he'd experienced or imagined. His entire body shook, sweat pouring down his face and seeping from every pore. 

When the metal slipped from his bloody fingertips, he collapsed against the chair, panting and shaking. His mind separated from his body and soared. It felt like the aftermath of an exquisite orgasm, only pierced through with pain. 

When he came back to himself, he buried his face against his shoulder and laughed hysterically, tears falling. The ropes were still tight around his forearms. Biting his lip until he tasted blood, he strained to reach the rope with his good right hand. His shoulder ached and stung, muscles tearing in slow motion as his shoulder threatened to dislocate before his fingers found purchase. 

If werewolf healing was as exaggerated as the werewolf pain threshold, he'd be free of his restraints, but crippled and useless. Pushing that thought away, he strained harder. His fingers brushed rope. Another push, and they brushed higher. Centimeter by centimeter, he listened to his shoulder tear until his fingertips curled beneath rope. It took everything in him not to collapse in relief, forfeiting everything he'd gained. 

Instead, he shifted and began the torture anew, but on the other shoulder. The only benefit being, as his back clenched and spasmed, contorting to draw his bad arm upward, his bad shoulder found slow relief. Then, the dragging, scratching rope reached his wrist. A low whimper escaped him before the pain began, but he pushed forward, his mind a pulsing thrum of white noise. And, actually, it wasn't that bad. The rope was fashioned into some kind of slip knot, so it had tightened as he worked, but his desperate grip had prevented the worst of it. Keeping his sobs silent as he dragged his hand free? Barely gut-wrenching torture at all. 

Freed, finally, he collapsed forward and panted. Heaving sobs wracked his body, but he couldn't find it in himself to feel ashamed. Yet, after a few rhythmic breaths, he forced himself upright—shaking out his tingling, half-numb fingers. Cringing against the mistake of letting his wrist swivel, he bit into his lip and bent to attack the thick ropes at his ankles. 

It wasn't until his fingertips delved within them that he found the second set of metal cuffs. 

Fuck! What the fuck was he supposed to do now? No amount of wriggling or broken toes would free his feet. Even if he broke his ankles—which, no—the cuff wouldn't fit over his heels. Had he come this far to fail? 

A noise in the hallway caught his attention. Someone was coming! Looking between the door and his bound feet, his face contorted into an agonized mask. Shaking the expression away, he forced his hands behind himself, linking his fingers together despite the lingering, aching sizzle of his wrist and shoulder. 

As the door creaked open, he gasped and glanced over his left shoulder. There, on the floor, was the discarded rope and handcuffs. But then the door was open, and Sean—the big, asshole hunter—walked in. The door shut, no one else entering, and Stiles rose his chin, determined and focused. Their gazes caught and lingered, Sean smirking. 

“Having yourself a little cry?” he taunted. 

“Bummed I'll die without sucking another dick. You know, you look like you've taken a cock up the ass. From time to time, am I right?” 

Which, yeah, low blow. He wasn't proud of himself. But he needed Sean's attention focused on him and nowhere else. If he came close enough to throw a punch? Stiles almost drooled over the knife at Sean's belt. 

“I'm not going to kill you, dog. Say whatever you want.” 

Going on a whim, Stiles said, “Fine, you're straight. Get Victoria, will you? Not my thing, exactly, but she looks like she knows her way around a hard cock. This werewolf thing, it's making me horny.”

“Shut your mouth about Mrs. Argent.” 

Bingo. “But I'm horny! Do you think she spits or swallows? A good girl like her, she wouldn't make a mess, would she? She'll swallow my thick, salty load.” 

Sean's idiot face contorted in rage and he stepped forward, his fists clenched. Adjectives. They were important. 

“You want to eat your teeth?” 

“I'd eat her cunt, if it helps.” He grimaced. “Bet that's one hairy twat, though. Strands of her crunchy short and curlies caught in my teeth. Still, I'd clear out those cobwebs with my tongue.” 

Sean drew the knife in one smooth motion, taking another step forward. His lip curled to expose all-too-human teeth. 

Scrounging for words that would make Sean take that final step, a light bulb lit. It took everything he had to keep his expression desperate rather than cunning, but he said, “I'll change first, make it good for her. Slip my long, rough wolf's tongue deep into that ancient—”

Sean lunged. To his credit, he swung the knife around, aiming the metal pummel at Stiles' face. The instant he came into range, Stiles released his clenching fingertips, grabbed Sean's wrist with both hands, and jerked Sean closer. With a twist and a shove, the blade slid beneath Sean's chin and upward, embedding itself in his spinal column. 

His eyes barely widened, and then he collapsed to the ground. Stiles didn't waste an instant of remorse or thought, simply yanked the knife free and went to work on the ropes. His claws were out, he realized. His claws were out and his eyes were pulsing, not only from the fight but from the ever-strengthening pull of the moon. 

Stiles pulled the rope free with his bad hand, comforted to find it somewhat healed. Then, without pause—sweat dripping from the tip of his nose—he thrust the blade into a metal link and started prying it apart. Werewolf strength, at least, wasn't exaggerated. It wasn't easy, but ranked against everything else he'd accomplished in the last hour, it wasn't hard either. 

 

When he surged to his feet, he stumbled. His feet were unsteady beneath him, but after a quick lap around the room—stepping over Sean's dead body thoughtlessly—he felt ready to go. Now, the door. 

Despite the adrenaline rush and the moon's pull, he had to be smart. His first responsibility was getting to Allison and Chris. Rationally, he should get out. That would be really smart. But Stiles didn't want to be that smart. He wouldn't leave Allison behind. Chris, either. 

So, he listened. And he waited. And he prayed. Prayed his moment came before someone checked on Sean. Prayed that when he knocked on the door, the man on the other side opened it. Prayed the man didn't open it with a gun pointed at Stiles' head. 

Luckily, Allison and Chris weren't far. Their cells were off the same hallway, but there was a guard at each of the doors. Stiles couldn't be sure, but he didn't think the guards could see each other. He thought there was a bend in the hallway. If there wasn't, he had problems. If the second guard saw him coming and sounded the alarm, Stiles would be stranded at the end of the hallway, numerous guards standing between them and freedom—with a barely conscious Chris to lug to safety. Even if the guard went down silently, those things were still true, but at least he'd have the element of surprise on his side. 

The roving guard left the hallway—finally—and Stiles banged on the door, grunting out a noise in Sean's low baritone. Long, tortuous moments passed. The door swung open. 

Springing forward, he raised the knife—no time for hesitation—and, suddenly, could see nothing. His eyesight must have changed more than he'd thought, because the harsh, glaring lights of the hallway were blinding. Thrown for a single moment, he clenched his eyes shut and relied on his other senses. He heard a rustle of clothing, a startled grunt. Focused as he was, he heard a heartbeat. It might as well have been a beacon. A bullseye. He plunged the knife deep. 

Fingers dragged against leather, and then a slow, too-late snap popped. Stiles groped after the sound, his hand closing around a gun. By the time he blinked his sight back into functioning, the man beneath him was still. It was a horrible sight, somehow hitting him a hundred times harder than Sean. This man was a stranger. Complicit in this horrible plan, or whatever horrible plan he thought was happening, but a stranger. His mouth and eyes gaped open, a startled, horrified twist to his features. 

Stiles knew he'd see the face again. See it when he closed his eyes at night. But he'd have to survive first. And he'd rather see this stranger's dead face than Allison's. 

In the next instant, he was stalking down the hallway, the gun in his left hand and the knife in his right. And the strange part? He felt good. His hand felt good. His shoulder felt good. The balance in his steps and the controlled, steady beat of his heart? It felt good. Even stalking his prey—knowing he was closing in for the kill—felt right.

There was a bend in the hallway, but it was closer to his cell than Allison's. There was a good five feet between the turn and the guard. Ideally, he'd raise the gun and make the shot. But silence was key. Which meant he could throw the knife, or rush the guard. A week ago, he wouldn't have considered throwing a knife in a life or death situation. That was some bullshit you saw in action movies, not reality. Yet, now, with the large hunting knife balanced in his hand, he knew it would work. His quickly-fading logical mind wished he'd practiced, that there was some empirical evidence to back up his instincts, but there wasn't and he couldn't change that. 

Hesitating at the bend, he listened until he located a heartbeat, shrugged, and darted forward. The knife flew. He didn't think about technique or the few attempts he'd made as a teenager. Didn't think about how the knife had bounced back dangerously. Didn't think about anything except the knife embedding itself in the man's chest. And he ran. 

The knife beat him there, but not by much. The man didn't reach for his gun. Instead, his hands were gripping the knife's hilt, the life quickly draining from his eyes. The hunter slid to the ground, almost in slow motion, and Stiles gave a firm shake of his head. He wasn't looking again. Sure, he looked. Enough to retrieve his knife and the man's weapons, but he didn't let himself see. 

Bursting into the cell, he caught Allison's gaze and took a step toward her. She took a step back, her hands raised in defense. 

Confused, Stiles spared a moment to look down at himself. He wasn't sure when the blood had splattered across his clothes and skin. Looking back, he could guess, but he didn't remember it happening. He saw bloody hands ending in claws, gripping weapons. Saw a blood-drenched shirt. He realized his face was probably distorted and beastly. 

“It's me,” he said, because he didn't know what else to say. 

Allison wasn't too bloody, but she wasn't her typical, pretty self, either. Her face was pale, except for the puffy, red expanse beneath her eyes and across her cheeks. Her lips were chapped and slightly blue. And, of course, there was a bloody, makeshift bandage on her hand. Even from across the room, it smelled wrong. 

“Gun?” Chris demanded, propping himself up against the wall. 

He looked even worse. They'd worked him over, hard. Busted lip and torn cheek, one swollen eye, and bruises across the better part of his face. When he moved away from the wall, he limped. And when he reached for the gun Stiles offered, his knuckles were scraped and swollen. 

Without another word, Stiles handed the second gun to Allison and turned back to the door. With a wave to beckon them forward, he stepped into the hallway. 

Sirens blared. Not the good kind. Not cops coming to the rescue. It was some sort of internal alarm—half meant to alert the hunters and half meant to deafen him. It worked on both counts, he assumed. His head exploded with the sound, an instant headache throbbing in his temples. Somewhere, barely, he made out the stampede of feet, but couldn't locate them or distinguish an enemy count. 

“Run!” Chris screamed. 

And he was one to talk. Stiles outpaced both of them easily, turning again and again to find them lagging farther behind. He was almost to his cell when a surge of hunters came into view. Four, no five, men and women were running at him, guns drawn. None shot, but they didn't have to. 

He could throw the knife. He could barrel into them, praying they wouldn't shoot when their lives were on the line, and praying he could rip their throats out with teeth and claws. But it was a shitty plan. Not a plan at all. Suicide. Pointless. Chris and Allison would still be trapped, and he wouldn't be alive to help them. 

Then he saw Victoria, raising a rifle. He threw himself against the wall just in time, the bullet bouncing behind him. Yet, when he turned to run, he saw the bullet wasn't a bullet. But a dart. A delivery system. 

Cold dread seized him. For the first time since he pried the metal cuffs free, he felt afraid. Screaming for the others to turn and retreat—knowing his words bled into the sirens as they left his mouth—he fled. 

He saw the future then. Knew he'd get jammed up behind them before it happened, but there was nothing he could do. The hallway was narrow and Chris was wounded and slow. He even had a split second to consider using Allison's body as a human shield, but wolfsbane was poisonous to humans too, wasn't it? If this poison was powerful enough to strip his humanity, what would it do to Allison? 

His indecision cost him. Shaking with the desire to push and shove his way to safety, trapped behind them in a stumbling, tortuous jog, he started to turn—intending to fend off the darts like a ninja—when one sank into his shoulder. 

A mere fifteen seconds later, he darted through the door and slammed it shut, pressing his weight against it. But the assault never came. There was no banging. No mad attempts to get to them. 

Because Victoria had what she wanted, Stiles realized. She'd wait until the wolfsbane set in, until he went mad and killed her family. Only then would she open the door. 

Turning slowly, Stiles looked between Allison and Chris, feeling panic lick at his mind. He took deep, steady breaths, and lowered himself to the floor. He had to keep his heart rate down. Slow the spread of the poison, like a snake bite. 

“Everything's fine,” he said, more to himself than either of them. “I'll hold on, and Derek will be here. Everything will be fine.” 

“Just one problem,” Chris said, rubbing a hand over his bruised face without so much as a flinch. “I don't know where 'here' is.” 

Heartbeat skyrocketing, Stiles snapped, “What?”


	17. Werewolf Everything

“What?” Stiles repeated, mind reeling. “You said—”

Allison whined at the back of her throat, sounding like the wolves she shared her life with. As she paced the cell, Chris joined Stiles on the cold cement floor, their backs braced against the door. With a soft hiss, the older man gripped his calf and manually straightened his leg, grimacing. 

“I walked into a trap. Where I thought they'd be, they were. Cars and lights, people. But when I went inside, they jumped me. I woke up here.” 

Despite trying his damnedest to stay calm, Stiles felt his heart jackhammering, sweat beading on his forehead. It wasn't panic or fear—though he felt both. It was the moon stirring him. The wolfsbane spreading through his system. There wasn't much time. 

“You don't recognize this?” He motioned around him and looked to Allison. “Either of you?” 

“No,” Alison whispered. “I've never been here.” 

Chris only shook his head. Finally, the nasty sirens went quiet, and Stiles exhaled—feeling like he could think again. Which....

“Shit! They took my blood.” 

Allison held out her arm, exposing a nasty bruise at the crook of her arm. Finger marks, too. She'd fought. “Mine, too.” 

“It's bait.” Stiles wiped at his burning forehead, his hand coming back damp. From one instant to the next, his mind strayed and seemed to pulse. Which, if he had to feel like this, there should be black lights and trippy tapestries involved, right? Not the hovering threat of mass murder and death. But … the point was … “Ah, right! Position one is a trap.” He heard the words and felt the strength leave his body. “Oh.” 

“Maybe.” Chris grimaced, looking like there was an alternative he'd rather not voice. In any other situation, Stiles might have laughed. To think that it could possibly get worse? Hilarious. 

“Oh, no.” Allison hugged herself, looking exhausted. “A gauntlet?” 

At Chris' lowered head, Stiles huffed out an impatient noise. Before he could work himself into a snark, Chris explained, “They'll separate the pack. If they stick to the playbook, Allison's blood will go in the cabin, drawing Scott. They'll create a trail with yours, drawing the strongest wolf away.” 

“And whoever follows the trail gets picked off, one by one, from a distance.” 

Stiles pictured Lydia's body. He remembered the sniper in the tree, and added a night scope to the image. If they laid down a trail, and then positioned themselves along it, rifles at the ready? Would Derek recognize the trap? With the full moon driving him, would he be able to resist it even if he did? 

Burying his head in his hands, Stiles whispered, “I fucking hate these people.” 

“So help isn't coming,” Allison said, her head bowed. Then, like a candle lighting, she straightened and thrust her chin into the air. “We'll have to rescue them. It's on us, now.” 

Even as his leg started to jiggle, angry energy seizing him, Stiles bit back a snort. Her enthusiasm was commendable, really. And he'd like to roll out. Go Team Stiles. Winners never quit. Quitters never win. All that jazz. He'd love to leap to action. But, honestly? He was scared. Scared and exhausted. Broken and beaten. And, kinda, not feeling great. Like, at all. 

They were cornered, physically. And Stiles was cornered mentally. Minutes from now, he'd kill anything in sight, starting with his friends and ending with random citizens on the street. If Derek's fate wasn't tied to his own … even so, it might come down to it. If he killed himself, Derek wouldn't be there to lead the pack down that trail. They'd take the cabin, and Allison and Chris would barricade themselves in long enough to be rescued. It was the most logical plan. Derek would agree, Stiles knew. If it meant saving their pack, he and Derek could die. 

The bouncing of his leg spread to the rest of his body, until he was shaking and twitching like an addict. Horrible fear and sadness joined the spasms of his body, driving him further from sanity. A gentle hand landed on his knee. When he looked up, Chris was staring at him with solemn, knowing eyes. 

“Okay.” Stiles started nodding and couldn't make himself stop. “Okay. So, in twenty minutes, or whatever, shoot me in the head. But, until then, I fully support brainstorming.” 

“Stiles—” Allison started, her eyes narrowed in refusal. 

“Right.” Chris clapped his hands. “Did anyone talk to you? What's their plan?” 

He glanced to Allison, part of him wanting to hold his tongue and refuse her the awful truth. But that … fuck! He thumped the back of his head against the door, feeling anxious, manic energy bubbling. “Oh, so ... I'm sorry. I don't feel good. I'm supposed to kill you, kill everyone in the building. Then escape into the streets and slaughter people. Make werewolves look bad.” 

Chris nodded. Didn't even blink. Allison, on the other hand, looked worried, betrayed, and horrified. 

“We must be in town. You'd escape to the woods, if you could.” Chris nodded, seemingly emotionless, but whispered, “They won't look for us here.” 

“Maybe we can call for help?” Allison suggested. “Stiles could howl?” 

Stiles shook his head, the world sloshing. “I can't hear anything. Won't work.” 

“Try,” Chris said. “Howling isn't all audible. With your mate bond, Derek might sense you.” 

Right. Somehow, he'd missed Howling 101. If he had more time—if he didn't feel half mad and half dead, already—he'd laugh and hedge. He still felt ridiculous, but there was barely time to waste on the task itself. None at all to waste on a lengthy lead in. So, he threw his head back and howled. It was kinda pathetic, really. Weak and warbling, and ending in a scream. 

“Ah....” Allison said. “I'm not sure—”

Stiles dredged up every iota of his fear and desperation and threw his head back. The sound rattled his bones. Seemed to echo in his mind, beyond sound. Out in the hallway, he heard the hunters swearing and telling Victoria they should charge the room, so Stiles figured he'd done something right. 

Only … he'd done something wrong, too. As if unleashing the wolf that tiny bit had cracked a dam, he felt a rush of adrenaline and fierce wildness. His head swam, and his claws snapped free. He tried focusing enough to banish them, but simply remaining seated was a battle. The desire to pace and rage stirred beneath his skin, desperate and all consuming. 

“Twenty minutes....” He craned his neck to the side, straining for control. “Optimistic, I think.” 

Chris sighed. “Have you worked on control, at all? Do you have an anchor?” 

Oh … yeah. They didn't know. Probably the only reason Chris hadn't shot him already. Part of Stiles—the selfish, terrified part—wanted to hide the truth. But most of him wasn't that selfish. 

“I'm rabid.” He slapped a hand over his face, feeling rabid. He didn't know whether he wanted to cry or jump to his feet and pace. An ugly, hysterical laugh ripped from his throat. “What I'm dosed with? It'll strip my humanity. I can't control myself.” 

“You idiot!” Allison grinned and reached for her gun. 

Talk about mixed signals. 

“Did they give you wolfsbane, before? At all?” Chris demanded, pulling out his gun. 

Stiles twined his hands together, some part of him recognizing a threat and surging to the forefront—demanding he attack and kill. Clearing his throat several times, he said, “Ah, no. No wolfsbane. Victoria's orders.” A little petulantly, he added, “They bashed me on the head. A lot.” 

Suddenly, he had an armful of Allison as she embraced him in a tight hug. Lacking the mental clarity to return the hug, Stiles was still blinking as she drew back and announced, “We're going to beat this!” 

“Do they not know we have these?” Chris gestured with the gun, and then frowned. “Didn't even get a shot off. Lucky, now, I guess. How many bullets do you have?” 

No, really. Don't clue him in. The world was basically white noise anyway. It's not like his untimely demise was circling closer with every minute. But they just released the guns' clips and counted up bullets, Allison shoving them toward her dad. Stiles' pulse caught and stuttered in his chest, making him look toward the ceiling, as if he could see the moon. 

“Guys....” he warned. 

“Twelve!” Allison laughed, ignoring him entirely. “We've got this.” 

“Eight,” Chris announced, then nodded. “It should work.” 

“Guys!” Stiles recoiled, surprised when the words came out garbled around fangs. When he reached up and groped at his sweat-damp face, he felt a strange tightening. “Hurry!” 

Chris held out his hand and snapped, “Knife!” 

Stiles fumbled to hand it over, his movements alternating between sluggish and frantic. Allison caught his hand and held it steady, his palm exposed. Then, as Stiles watched in dismay, Chris pried the bullet apart, a small amount of liquid falling and pooling in his palm. 

“Don't waste....” Fuck. Forming words felt impossible. “You need bullets.” 

“One problem at a time,” Allison said, still grinning. “There's a reason they didn't give you wolfsbane, Stiles. What's in your system now, it's counteracted by regular wolfsbane. You're up, this is down. You drink this, you'll be fine!” 

His hand trembled, relief leaving him dizzy. Yet, “fine” was subjective, wasn't it? He might not be rabid, but he'd still be a werewolf in the midst of his first transition—trapped in a room with two humans. And right now … it was happening now, and he felt stupid and wild. 

“Save the bullets.” 

“Shut up,” Allison said. “We need you! Don't move your hand, okay?” 

At his reluctant nod, she scrambled to her feet and rushed for the heavy wooden chair in the center of the room. Like the chair he'd occupied, it was bolted to the floor. Using the butt of her empty gun, she pounded on it, making a lot of noise but little headway for long minutes. Yet, as Chris pried open the last bullet, Allison pried the chair's back from its frame. With a little more yanking and wiggling, a slab of wood came free in her hands. Kicking at the back's frame, she freeing several long pieces of wood. One came away with three nails jutting from it. She cackled, an excited, bloodthirsty expression on her face. 

She wasn't thinking about killing her mom—Stiles could tell. That would be a different expression. 

“There. Drink it,” Chris ordered. “Careful. Don't spill any.” 

Stiles bent in half to suck the liquid from his palm. It tasted vile and burned going down, but he licked his palm clean. Yet, for all he should be relieved, he was more nervous than ever. The guns were paperweights now. Not even one bullet remained. There was always the knife. If things went bad, Chris could use that. But, could he? Really? By the time they realized Stiles couldn't control himself, would Chris be able to take him down with a knife? As banged up and slow as he was? And even if he could, he and Allison would be helpless against the hunters. 

Their fates rested in Stiles' crazed, claw-tipped hands. No pressure. 

“Okay.” Allison slid to her knees before him. “It won't be long now. Get your head right, okay? Everything depends on you. There's no backing out. No sacrificing yourself. You lose control, you die. You die, Derek dies. We die. The pack dies. Scott dies. You get it? This is the most important thing you've ever done!” 

“Jesus.” Stiles shrunk back from her, horrified. “Please … I can't.”

“You can! Suck it up, Stilinski!” 

She hit him then. Allison hit him. A solid punch to the shoulder with no trace of playfulness. He couldn't say it hurt, particularly, but it was traumatizing. Like when your favorite teacher started screaming in class. 

“Allison,” Chris said softly, shaking his head. He reached out and took Stiles' hand, holding it between both of his own. And, officially: the world made no sense. “Think about Derek. Think about how much he needs you. Cling to that. Stay strong.” 

It should be awkward. The way Chris was cradling his hand? It should be awkward. But Stiles stared at him like a lifeline. His skin felt too tight, and his mind was in tatters. If he was on his happy little black-light trip, this would be the moment he cut his losses. He'd say 'fuck it' to the possible police charges and the disappointment of his father, and he'd call an ambulance. Because this? This wasn't fun. This wasn't normal or safe. He could not handle this. 

“Derek needs you to be strong,” Chris said, massaging his hand. “Derek. Think of Derek.” 

Derek.... Stiles thought back to the bonfire, and that stupid South American rodent. Remembered waking up in that clearing, the last time he lost his mind, Derek having packed that ridiculous bag of beef jerky and weapons. Derek losing Peter. Derek addressing the pack like a drill sergeant. Derek knowing enough, caring enough to give him an office to work in. Their plans for the future … picnics and blow jobs. Stiles' first heat. He wanted that. Wanted it so fiercely he ached. 

The change came over him in a rush, relief surging through his body. Something snapped. Broke. Emotion flared to life and he felt … strong and centered. Derek. He'd get back to his mate. He'd kill and destroy. Burn and conquer. 

All the questions and doubts, the fear, sizzled away. He heard the heartbeats in the hallway like filthy beacons, his sole mission in life their destruction. 

“Stiles?” Allison asked. 

Standing, he paced over to the pieces of wood Allison had left on the floor. Grabbing the large panel that had functioned as the chair's back, he slammed it against the wall. Bits and pieces of wood sprayed and rained to the floor. He eyed them like salvation. If he could throw a knife, he could throw a stake. 

That's all he needed to know. Usually, he'd need a plan. It'd be sneaky and brilliant. He didn't have any of that, now. He had a mate who needed his help, and six dead hunters standing between him and freedom. 

“Stiles?” Allison was standing before him suddenly. She stretched out a hand, but let it fall to her side. “Say something, please.” 

“Wait here.” 

He went to the door, a dozen slivers of wood cradled to his chest. Pushing it open, he stepped through. The hunters were beyond the bend in the hallway, so he padded forward—silently. Victoria was having a hard time piecing together a story that satisfied everyone. They didn't realize she'd volunteered them as martyrs. Standing between Stiles and his mate, they'd volunteered themselves. But they didn't realize that, either. 

Stiles lowered the pieces of wood to the ground, silently. It wasn't even hard. Now, he could be silent. Now, he could pick up two stakes, balance them in his hands, and focus on the first two heartbeats effortlessly. Stepping forward, around the curve, he launched both weapons, then ducked back. He was finding the balance in two new stakes before the first wild bursts of gunfire exploded. 

It was unfortunate, the shooting. His ears rang. Then there was screaming. Not his own. He stood, stakes at the ready, as Victoria screamed, “Hold your ground!” One disobeyed, turned and ran. Darting forward again, he targeted the running hunter. Because, hell no. No way was one getting away to barricade the doors and warn the others Stiles was coming. No way. The ragged pieces of wood sank deep into the man's exposed back. He stumbled. Fell. Moaning, he dragged himself down the hallway with fingers and forearms. Three hunters standing. 

Which was when it went horribly wrong. One of their damn pipe bombs skidded to his feet. Kicking a bomb? Not the best idea, generally, but in the narrow hallway? He couldn't let it explode at his feet. Could not. So, he kicked it and dove backward. A horrible noise ripped through the air, leaving his ears ringing. One of the hunters screamed and kept screaming. Stiles pushed to his feet, eyeing the shards of metal embedded in the wall with a great deal of respect. Only....

Fuck! The enclosed space and heat of the bomb had vaporized the wolfsbane water. Splashes of it were at his feet. Yet, despite avoiding the spray, a fine sheen was settling over his skin. Each breath drew the poison into his lungs. Through his coughing, he heard the hunters creeping forward, pressing their advantage. 

Ignoring the burn, he darted for the wooden stakes and threw one. It bounced off the wall, a mile wide, but slowed their steps. He straightened, celebrated his immunity to wolfsbane, and then doubled over. His heartbeat exploded in his chest and the world went blurry. 

Maybe the rabid stuff was up, the tranquilizer down, and this shit sideways. He didn't know. Just knew the self-awareness he'd been clinging to narrowed to a fragile shard and his body was flip-flopping between meth-head amped and opium-den mellow. He had to escape the hallway! 

Only, if he retreated to Allison and Chris, he'd never get out of that room again. The pack would die. Which left one option: forward. Through Victoria and the other hunter standing. Two. He could do two. And, as each breath burned his throat and poisoned his body, it was now or never. 

Grabbing two stakes as he passed, Stiles sprinted forward. He drew back his arm, ready to throw, and slid through the puddle of toxic water. Slamming into the wall, a piece of shrapnel embedded there slid into his shoulder. Stiles screamed and jerked himself backward, falling to the ground. A spray of bullets hit the wall, but his hands slipped through burning water. It soaked into his jeans, his skin alight with searing pain. 

Bounding forward on his hands and feet, like an animal—and with no more thought than one—Stiles abandoned his stakes and ran. Each leap forward tore at his wounded, bleeding shoulder, but he didn't slow. A bullet grazed his neck, but he didn't slow. Passing the hunters, he feigned at their feet, hoping to buy himself time. The strange female jumped back, but Victoria shot. 

The bullet tore into his side, sending him reeling. He rolled, jumped. Screamed in pain. But the doorway to the room he'd been bound in loomed before him. With a final, desperate lunge he skidded across the rough cement floor in a heap. 

Scrabbling for the bullet in his side, he plunged jagged claws deep, howling in pain. After a fierce yank, he had a handful of bloody flesh in his hand, the bullet a small gleam amidst it. The sight jarred him. Left him immobile for long seconds. His entire body screamed in pain, his mind a distant murmur. But ... no!

A hunter was nearing the door. Weapons? He rolled for the center of the room, grabbing at the discarded handcuffs and rope as he passed. With a quick twist of his bloody fingers, the rope was secured to the little metal links connecting the cuffs. Straightening, he swung the rope in circles, gaining momentum for the metal cuffs. 

Honestly, he felt stupid. Saw himself from a distance and felt stupid. Facing down a semi-automatic rifle with makeshift nunchucks? Not smart. 

But the woman stepped into the room, gun raised and ready, and Stiles whipped the rope. The weighted rope curled around her arm like a whip, and he yanked. Her shot went wide. She stumbled forward. Stiles buried his fangs in her neck. Tearing and savaging, he jerked back with a mouthful of flesh. Blood flowed from his mouth. Blood spurted from her severed artery onto his face in great, nasty spurts. 

He yanked the gun from her trembling hands and watched her drop. Saw the shocked surprise on her face as death took her. 

And, okay … therapy existed for a reason. Moving on. 

Readying the gun, he took a deep breath and darted into the hallway. A gunshot sounded. Chris screamed. 

Heart beating out of his chest, he ran. Allison's face flashed before his mind. Victoria! The bitch! He rounded the corner and skidding to a halt. Victoria stood with a teary Allison before her, one hand at Allison's neck and the other behind her daughter. Judging by the arch of Allison's shoulders, it didn't take a genius to imagine the gun pressed to her back. 

“I admit it,” Victoria said, most of her face hidden behind Allison's head, “you surprised me.” 

“Where's Chris?” 

Which, really, wasn't what he meant. He knew where Chris was. He was beyond that shut door, in that room. But, between Stiles' hammering heart and the barrier of wood, he couldn't be sure the man was alive. 

“Bleeding to death, I'd assume,” Victoria said. “I'm glad to hear your concern. My husband doesn't demand affection, typically. You want to save him? You want to give Allison a chance? Take a step back.” 

“Don't!” Allison cried. “Kill her, Stiles! Just do it!” 

“You'll hit Allison. I'll shoot you, and Chris will bleed to death.” Victoria forced Allison to take a step forward with the press of her gun. “Or, you back up, into that room, I'll take Allison with me, and everyone will live to fight the next round.” 

“Please, Stiles!” Allison yelled. “Save my dad! Just shoot. You'll get us both. Just, save my dad.” 

Muffled coughing came from within the room. Stiles cursed. 

“Damn it, Victoria, fine! Allison, I'll save him. Please, don't do anything stupid. We'll come for you.” 

Not dropping his gun, he backed up quickly and ducked back into the damn cell. His foot slipped and he glanced down, realizing he stood in a pool of blood. Lingering in the death trap as Victoria forced Allison forward was torture. If she had another of those bombs.... What if she jerked the door closed and trapped him? 

Feeling dirty, he hefted the dead weight of the hunter and tossed her in the doorway. He shut the door until it nudged against the hunter's body and stood behind the wooden barrier. And, yeah, there were worlds of wrong happening, but what was he meant to do? 

“Hurry, Allison!” he yelled. “Get her out of here!” 

Their heartbeats passed by the door and then stalled, making Stiles' stomach drop. He braced himself, waiting for the explosion of metal and wolfsbane. 

“You want her back? Follow the trail of blood.” 

“Don't you fucking hurt her!” 

Victoria laughed. It was almost too much. He almost abandoned the plan and went for her throat. He'd never hated anyone the way he hated her in that moment. 

“Not her blood, child. Yours.” She laughed again. “You want us, we'll be at the end of the trail. No one comes, you can follow it tomorrow morning to find her body.” 

“Don't! Stiles—”

Allison gasped in pain. “Move! You're killing your dad.” 

Stiles listened to them move away, their heartbeats growing quieter and quieter. As he waited, he searched the pockets of the dead hunter, pulling out a cell phone triumphantly. Only … where were they? What if Victoria barricaded the door atop the stairs? What if she laid down mountain ash? Allison wouldn't let that happen. Victoria would have to shoot her first.

Stiles crept after them, staying out of sight but ready to rush forward if he heard a struggle. But they passed through the door without pause and continued forward, out the front door. 

Turning on his heels, he raced for Chris. The hallway seemed longer than ever. He jumped over dead bodies and pools of wolfsbane, skidding to a stop before the door of Chris' cell. Yanking it open, his stomach turned at the sight. 

Chris blinked up at him, his lips pinched and white. He was pale all over, really. Except for the nasty bruises on his face, which looked even worse against the pallor of his skin. The gut shot wasn't much to look at, either. Blood pooled despite Chris' haphazard attempt to apply pressure, and something smelled foul. The bullet had ruptured his stomach or bowels. It was the kind of wound that killed you slow, infection chasing the initial threat of blood loss. 

“You'll be okay,” Stiles announced. 

Chris grit his teeth for long seconds before demanding, “Allison?” 

“I'll get her.” He yanked off his shirt and tied it tightly around the wound. “I'll get her, Chris. Don't move. Help's coming.” 

He ran from the room, but jerked to a stop in the hallway. Looking with fresh eyes … no way a stretcher was getting through. With all the visible weapons, cops would have to clear the scene before an EMT would venture farther. Growling, he grabbed the shirts of two dead hunters and started dragging. Tortuous minutes later—with three sets of car keys in his pocket—he threw the last dead body into his cell and slammed the door shut. 

He took the steps three at a time, leaping and scrabbling his way up. The second he passed the front door, he noted the house number and street, and jerked the cell phone out. When the clerk answered at the station, Stiles knew he was asking for heartbreak, but made himself say, “I need to talk to Sheriff Stilinski. I'm his son.” 

The pause lasted a lifetime. Panicked terror surged until he feared he'd collapse to the sidewalk when the clerk spoke. Then, finally, “Just a minute.” 

Holy shit. Was his dad okay? 

“Stiles?” 

“Dad?” His face contorted, startled tears welling. “Oh my god, Dad. Okay. Okay. 228 Third Street. Chris has been shot. He needs an ambulance. In the basement, at the end of the hallway. The scene is clear, but there are D.O.D in one of the rooms. I'll hold. Get the ambulance. Now!” 

“Stiles … okay!” 

He ran for the yellow Humvee in the driveway. Douche mobile, for sure, but just now? Something that could mow down some hunters and keep going looked good. Real good. The second set of keys worked. As he was putting the rifle inside, he heard a soft gasp and turned. 

An old man stood on the sidewalk, one of those little yappers on a leash before him. He looked primed to run, or maybe pass out, and Stiles looked down at himself. Shirtless and bloody, still sporting claws, and handling a semi-automatic rifle? Worth staring, he guessed, and he couldn't even see his face. It was sticky, though, he knew that. 

“FBI,” he snapped. “Move along.” 

The man nodded, hard. “Yes, Sir! Sorry!” 

“Stiles?” 

“Yeah, Dad. I'm here.” He jumped into the Humvee and started the engine. “Thank God you're okay.” 

“Are you? Stiles, are you okay?” 

“Just be glad I've got werewolf everything,” he muttered. 

“Stiles! What's going on?” 

He rattled off the address of position one. “Get everyone there, Dad. It's a trap. They're going to kill the pack. There's no one inside. Victoria has Allison. I'm on my way there.” 

“Damn it, son! Slow down!” 

“There's no time, Dad. Don't let anyone approach the house or go inside. Establish a perimeter and use a bullhorn. There's no one inside!” 

“Stiles!” 

“I have to go! I love you! Stay safe!” 

Stiles threw the cell phone onto the passenger seat and rolled down the windows. Then, as he sped through town and toward Derek, he dredged up the wolf and howled. It felt easier now, natural. Dogs barked. People screamed. A car swerved. Shrugging it all away, he howled again. And again. 

Derek would hear him. Derek would know he was coming. Derek....


	18. A Frolic Through the Woods

Stiles sped down the dirt road to position one, woods on either side of him. He'd stopped howling in a nod to the hunters and their rifles, hoping the familiar Humvee would pass unquestioned. It did, and he didn't slow. The closer he got, the more frantic he felt. A siren blared. Again, not the good kind. The hunters were using the same trick—trying to disorient the wolves and keep them from realizing they were attacking an empty fucking cabin. A little closer and he heard bursts of gunfire. 

The battle was underway. 

Personally, Stiles felt like he'd been fighting for days. Like he was chest deep in blood and war. His fingers only tightened on the steering wheel. So be it. 

Barreling past parked cars, he caught sight of the porched cabin and the battlefield of the front yard. And, fuck no. Two hunters had Erica's squirming, bloody body in their arms. They were dragging her toward the porch as the other hunters sprayed the yard with bullets, halting the wolves' attempt to rescue her. Boyd made a break for it, and a bullet caught him in the side. 

Grinding his foot into the gas petal, Stiles drove over the rocks lining the driveway and into the grass. If Erica hadn't been in their arms, he'd have mowed them down. But she was, so he slammed to a halt between the hunters carrying her and the cabin, offering the wolves cover. 

Bullets rained down on the Humvee, but he scrambled for the passenger door. Isaac and Jackson were already ripping into the hunters when he squirmed free, the rifle yanked along behind him.

“Stiles!” Erica dragged herself to her knees and held out her arms for him. “Thank God!” 

“Retreat!” he screamed. 

Bending, he scooped Erica up and ran. Ethan hauled Boyd to his feet, and the others followed Stiles as he darted into the tree line. They ran another thirty feet, and then crouched down. Stiles tossed the rifle to Isaac, nodding toward the hunters, and observed his pack. Erica was lethargic and confused, her wet clothing suggesting one of the pipe bombs had filled her lungs with wolfsbane. Boyd was wounded. The others, though, seemed fine. But....

“Where's Derek?” 

“Gone!” Jackson yelled. 

“Out there.” Isaac jerked with his chin toward the woods without looking away from the rifle's scope. “He's been gone all afternoon.” 

Erica wheezed, then said, “He left Scott in charge.” 

He didn't have to ask. All the wolves turned to look at the cabin, grimacing. “Damn it! Scott's inside? Is he alive?” 

“We don't—” Jackson started. 

“Yes!” Isaac insisted. “I can feel him. He's alive.” 

Stiles snarled. “No one's in the fucking cabin! Allison, Chris, and I were somewhere else. No one was in there!” 

“Scott's in there!” Boyd growled and brandished his bloody hand before him. “A little help?” 

Without pause, Stiles sank his claws deep into Boyd's side and yanked out a chunk of flesh big enough that it had to contain the bullet. Boyd snarled and cursed. Erica hissed. 

“Jesus, Stiles! Be careful!” 

He snorted. Like that was a problem. Not knowing where Derek was. That was a problem. The hunters having a hostage. That was a problem. Allison waiting to be rescued at the end of a death march. That was a problem. 

He threw his head back and howled. Long and loud, and with everything he had, he howled. The others joined him. Their voices rose and merged, calling their alpha. It went on forever. Until Stiles heard police sirens over the blaring noise coming from the cabin. 

It was a risk. The sirens both filled him with hope and trepidation. What if the hunters in the woods cut and ran? What if they found Allison's dead body? 

He'd hunt Victoria until his dying breath. 

“It's a hostage situation,” he said. “The cops have to get Scott back.” 

“Fuck that!” Erica said, dragging herself into a sitting position. “We're getting him out.” 

Stiles clapped a hand to her shoulder, stilling her attempts to stand. “They've got Allison. Erica, they've still got Allison. There's a trail of my blood through the woods. She's at the end, and there are hunters with rifles all along it, ready to pick us off. The cops can't handle that. If we don't go for her, we'll find her dead.” 

“How....” She met his gaze. “What are we supposed to do?” 

He glanced deeper into the woods, a sudden burst of sound catching his attention. Someone was crashing through the underbrush—fast and careless. A howl rattled Stiles bones. 

He mirrored the sound, his head tipped back. It wasn't so much a conscious decision as a instinctual response. The rest of the pack joined him. 

“Stiles?” 

“Derek!” 

Leaping to his feet, he raced past fallen tree limbs, thorny bushes, and clinging weeds. Then Stiles saw him. Derek. His body was little more than a blur as he rushed headlong at Stiles. They impacted with twin gasps and then Stiles was laughing and crying, clinging to Derek's hard, muscled body. He smelled weird. Too much like earth and too little like vanilla and cinnamon, but Stiles clung. 

Derek pulled back first, squirming to get a good look at his face. Stiles obliged him happily, a little startled to see tears on Derek's cheeks. 

“I'm okay,” he whispered. “I fought my way free.” 

For the first time since it happened, he felt the weight of the day press on him. Here, in Derek's arms, part of him wanted to break down, assured he was finally safe. But the day wasn't over. 

“You're okay?” Derek asked. 

His hands mapped Stiles' body, sliding over arms and chest and thighs in quick, assessing swipes. Stiles did the same, finding Derek shirtless but strangely slippery. Earth. Mud. Derek was smeared in mud. He'd been out in the woods, alone. Smothered in mud. Hunting. 

The idea should have filled him with fear or sadness. Instead, he felt only fierce pride and blood lust. Derek was coming for him. If he'd been at the end of that trail of blood, Derek would have slaughtered every hunter standing between them. Funny. If he'd ever put together a list of traits he wanted in a lover, he'd have named a sense of humor, a shared taste in television shows. Somehow, being willing and able to slaughter an army to reach him had climbed that list. 

“You were coming for me,” Stiles breathed. 

Derek pressed their forehead together, breathing heavy. “I'll always come for you.” 

“I'll always fight for you.” He felt tears prickle, but blinked them away. “I fought for us, Derek. You made me strong.” 

“I love you.” 

“You're my favorite.” 

He pulled Derek back in for another hug. All too soon, however, reality intervened. The pack was moving to join them, and the police sirens had arrived. Stiles pulled away, thinking of his dad. 

“This isn't over,” he said softly. “They still have Allison. At the end of the blood trail, they have Allison. It's, Derek, it's a trap.” 

He snorted. “I know.” 

“You knew?” 

“I thought they'd bring you here. I showed up hours ago, to free you before you went inside. When you never came, I prowled the woods. I know where they are.” 

Elated energy surged. “You know where Allison is?” 

“Just the general location.” His hand tightened on Stiles' arm. “I know where most of the hunters are. I watched them lay down a trail of your blood, Stiles. Watched them take position. I know where the shooters are.” 

The pack arrived, and Boyd said, “We can avoid them? Go to the end?” 

“We can kill them!” Erica said. 

“Yes,” Derek agreed. To both. Either. 

Stiles hummed. He could visualize their attacks on the hunters, their slow slinks through the woods and cold-blooded, methodical slaughter of each and every one. Yet, as suicidal as Victoria was, the other hunters weren't. If the hunters were in contact with each other—which, of course, they were—taking out the snipers would spoke those holding Allison. Not to mention, he didn't exactly have a license to kill. There were going to be questions at the end of this, and the answers were already tricky. 

“We have to avoid the snipers and find Allison,” Stiles said. “We'll circle behind them, check out the situation, and go from there.” 

He glanced to Derek for agreement, but Erica was already muttering, “I can't keep pace.” 

“Wait. Actually, I need you to find my dad. They might need your ears.” Turning to Derek, Stiles said, “Scott is inside the cabin. Erica, tell my dad that Officer … Grady! Officer Grady is a hunter. He lured me into the house when I was abducted. If he's here now … let the cops handle it, but play back up, okay?” 

Erica growled and tried to flip her hair. Given that it was soaking wet and matted with blood, the effect was less magnificent than she probably imagined. “I hate this!” 

“Go, Erica,” Derek said softly. To everyone else, he asked, “Ready to run?” 

Stiles bent and double knotted the laces of his sneakers, readying himself for battle. Then he extended his hand toward Isaac, took back the rifle, and secured it over his shoulder. After latching onto Boyd for a farewell hug, Erica waved somewhat pathetically and started trudging through the woods. 

“Stay on my trail, and stay quiet. If a shot sounds, scatter, but keep running. You can't hide from those scopes. We can only stay out of range, move too fast, or use trees as barricades. Locate the shooters through sound, not sight. Which means, no matter what happens, stay silent. All right? Let's go.” 

They ran. Ten minutes in, Stiles started to get nervous. Maybe he should have stayed behind with Erica. Not only had he been beaten and shot—several times—his body was still adjusting. He was a wolf now, and burning through a huge amount of energy. Only, when was the last time he'd eaten? Had he grabbed a slice of leftover pizza this morning? A lifetime ago? As his legs ached and his heart hammered—as he ran toward danger—he strained to remember if he'd had that one slice of pizza. 

No, he decided. He was still running off yesterday's pizza. The pizza that had replaced the energy burnt off during yesterday's near-death experience. So, this near-death experience? This was coming out of muscle mass and desperation. 

Yet, five minutes after that, something changed. He couldn't pinpoint it, exactly. Only … he stopped thinking. Stopped identifying himself as one. For as many times as he'd said “the pack” or “my pack” they'd merely been words. This, now, felt different. He felt it now, for the first time. Pack. His pack. As they ran, he felt them in his body, in his mind and soul. He was a part of them, and they were a part of him. He was wolf. 

Stiles jumped over the fallen logs, ducked beneath the low branches, and leaned this way and that, avoiding bushes and brush. Beyond the pack, the woods felt like a part of him, too. Like subways and traffic jams and sidewalks were a distant memory—a place he pretended. The woods, the dark, that was where he belonged. 

His legs stopped aching. His heart slowed to a steady, ready beat. The world became alive. He could see more. Hear more. Feel more. 

The gunshot nearly deafened him. 

Yet, for all his ears were ringing, he pinpointed its origin with no effort at all. For one brief, panicked moment, he opened his mouth, ready to cry out and yell instructions. Then, Derek's orders flashes into his mind. Stiles snapped his mouth shut and ran. He dodged and weaved away from the shooter, putting a tree between them and keeping it there. Thirty feet farther into the woods, Derek grunted and regained his forward momentum. Despite the flash of fear Stiles felt, he squared his shoulders and ran after Derek. 

His mate would keep him safe. Derek was a good alpha. Derek knew their locations. Knew the range of their guns. 

Another shot split the air, but it hit the dirt ten feet to their right and thirty feet behind them. As one, the pack put on a burst of speed. More shots sang, but the bullets didn't hit anywhere near them. Wild shots. 

Bullets, Stiles knew, could fly for miles. Human sight, though, even with a scope, was limited. Put a forest of trees between them and the shooter, and add in their fast pace … they were as safe as they could hope to be. Which, actually, wasn't super safe, but this was battle. War. Safe wasn't an option anymore. 

Not if they wanted to save Allison and end the hunters. And Stiles really, really did. 

These same assholes had killed Derek's family. They were monsters. Enemies. If the pack was to survive, if they were ever to feel safe, these people had to be dead or imprisoned. Stiles knew which he should prefer, being a federal agent and all, but he was pack now. Dead sounded perfect. 

Suddenly, he heard voices. Derek led them even farther to the left, away from the sounds. Stiles knew they were circling the group of hunters. Remembered suggesting it as a plan. Now, though, with his thoughts simple and distant, he ached to charge the group. He could sense Allison—his baser instincts identifying her as pack. 

Derek led them through thicker brush, prickers snagged on Stiles' pants and bare arms, and positioned them behind a big rock. Stopping was painful. His muscles sparked, adrenaline urging him on. 

“There's a sentry,” Derek said, nodding to the left. Stiles listened, but heard nothing before Derek added, “After fifteen seconds, draw his fire. I'm going to circle behind and take him out.” 

Wait. What? Derek was going to rush the sniper rifle and hope for the best? 

“Derek?” 

“Make sure he sees you, but be subtle. I didn't get this far. I don't know where the next sentry is. Just get his attention, get back to the rock, and stay safe.” 

Derek grabbed the back of his head and jerked him closer for a quick kiss. “Wait!” Stiles grasped after his mate as he moved away. “Derek, I can help.” 

“You are.” 

Then he was gone. Gone! Stiles stayed crouched, his legs jiggling as he counted to fifteen. “Five … four … three....” 

“I'm going!” Ethan announced. 

“No. I'm—” Stiles started. 

Ethan darted around the side of the boulder. A loud crack sounded as he purposefully stomped on a stick. A second, two, and the gun fired. Ethan dove behind the rock, a manic, reckless grin on his face as he looked between the remaining pack, nodding. 

Stiles frowned. It had to be done. But, if he'd done it, he would have called it bravery. Ethan's actions … brave, undoubtedly, but Stiles didn't like it. There was something in the other man's eyes that looked too wild, too careless. A sick dread crawled into Stiles' belly. 

Ethan grinned again and dashed for a nearby tree. Bullets dug into the bark and meat of the tree, Ethan holding himself motionless behind it. Stiles covered his mouth with his hand, terrified. That rifle was no joke, and that tree wasn't exactly a redwood. A shot rang and Ethan howled. The scent of blood filled the air. 

Ethan twined his hand up the tree, grunting as blood flowed from his forearm and leaked down the pale skin of his arm. 

With a laugh, he said, “Oops.” 

Fuck. Ethan wasn't okay. Not that Stiles knew the guy well, but this seemed off. He wanted to do something, to grab Ethan and drag him back, but that was suicide. He could only twine his hands together as wood chips flew from the tree with each shot. Hunters were yelling. Running. Advancing on them. 

The hunter in the tree stand let out a garbled shriek, then tumbled to the ground. Standing, breathing a little easier, Stiles was waving Ethan over when the world exploded. 

In the next instant, Stiles was on his back, ears ringing and sight swimming. Water sprayed across his body, lighting him up with agony. Holding his breath, Stiles struggled to his knees. More than the jarring impact of his fall, his sight was distorted by smoke and flying earth. Bright flashes of light blinded him, causing unnatural shadows and distorting reality. Fireworks—little harmless fireworks—assaulted his ringing ears. 

He grabbed his head, disoriented and zinging with pain. Up was down and down was sideways. Attack was retreat and retreat was impossible. Derek? He tried to look, found himself blinking tears from his abused eyes. Tried to listen, and whimpered at the irregular booms of sound. 

Strong hands closed around his shoulders, yanking him to his feet. As he was dragged and pushed forward, his hand made contact with cloth. Wet fabric. Pain sliced and sizzled at the contact, but Stiles bent and buried both hands in the poisoned cloth. Who it was, he didn't know. Who was pushing him, he didn't know. But he hefted the writhing body, wrapped his arms around whatever body part he held, and trudged forward—the gun across his back digging into his shoulder blade. 

It was a trap. Obviously, a trap. They'd been standing on top of a mine. Or a bomb. Or under water balloons filled with wolfsbane. Honestly, Stiles wasn't sure what had happened. But he got the gist. A dead-man's switch and hell on Earth. 

The fireworks fell silent. It was almost worse. He heard the hunters approaching at a sprint. Heard the groans and whimpers of his pack. 

Some were coming from behind him, from that black hole behind the rock. Soft, wet gasps were coming from in front of him … Derek. When the person in his arms stirred and struggled to stand, Stiles released him. 

“Get to Derek!” he ordered, pressing a hand to both bodies and pushing them forward. “Get him out of here. Lead the hunters away!” 

Stupid? A death sentence? For Allison? For all of them? 

There wasn't time to think. Stiles took a deep breath and stumbled toward the wolves left behind. The closer he got, the more humid the air grew. The poisoned air clung to his skin and set his nerves on fire. But Stiles lurched toward Isaac's pitiful moans. 

He could maybe see now. The fireworks had stopped. But tears streamed past his burning, clenched-shut eyes. Wolfsbane was in his eyes. He didn't dare open them and make it worse. If worse was possible. 

But he didn't need his sight. He could hear. Too much. As the hunters grew closer and closer, he heard too much. But he heard Isaac. And he heard the moment Jackson regained consciousness—startled, choking heaves rattling his body. 

Stiles tripped over something, God only knew what, and fell to his knees before Isaac and Jackson. Jumping to his feet—lungs aching from lack of air—he groped for them, gripped cloth, and started dragging. Between hacking coughs, Jackson snarled and cursed, none-too-happy with the rough treatment. Stiles barely heard him. He heard the hunters. 

“What?” Isaac demanded, suddenly struggling against Stiles' hold. 

He dragged them another five feet and let go, desperate for air. Sucking in a deep breath, he found it only stung like a hundred mosquito bites down the column of his throat—not razor blades. A rousing success. 

“Can you stand?” he whispered. 

“Fucking strangled me to death!” Jackson snarled. 

“Get your pussy ass on your pussy feet, or you're going to be shot in the head to death!” 

Which, believe it or not, shut Jackson right up. He managed to stand and helped Stiles drag Isaac to his feet. 

“You good?” Stiles demanded. He blinked then. Blinked until the watery junk in his eyes gathered in the corners and was hastily rubbed away. His sight … wasn't great. There was a weird white film over the world. Good enough. “We have to move. Can you run?” 

Isaac was still bent at the waist, his head craned to the side in obvious pain. But he groped forward and sank his claws into each of their shoulders. You'd think, eventually, Stiles would reach some sort of pain threshold where nothing hurt anymore. Maybe that was true, but he wasn't there yet, and Isaac's claws hurt. Like, a fucking lot, actually. 

“Run!” Isaac urged. “I'll keep up.” 

A low growl caught his attention, and Stiles glanced upward. There, a little in the distance, he saw Derek—looking back at him. As if the words were whispered into his ear, Stiles heard, “I love you. Save Allison.”

He nodded hard. “Kill them and come back to me.” 

Without waiting for a response, refusing to cast a last lingering look or hide a goodbye in a declaration of love, Stiles grunted and started to run. Jackson matched his pace. Isaac stumbled behind them for a few steps, but quickly found his stride. Behind him, Stiles heard Derek's howl. 

The pack was separated, moving in two different directions. Stiles, Jackson, and Isaac were following their original path, trying to circle behind the hunters and reach Allison. Derek, Boyd, and Ethan were running away from Allison's position, drawing the advancing hunters with them. The separation, the idea of going against Victoria and her men with only two wounded wolves as backup, should have been terrifying. But maybe that emotion did have threshold, because Stiles couldn't feel it anymore. 

Truth be told, he was more irritated than anything. Which was just fucked up, really. Running into battle—toward his very possible death—with only a sense of weary irritation couldn't be a good thing. But Stiles was over it. Over running and fighting and being terrified. Over being hunted and threatened and hurt. It was time to kill some hunters, get Derek back in his arms, eat anything and everything he could get his hands on, and sleep for a week. Then, the sex. He was going to have so much sex. Hell had better open up and claim him if it wanted him before that happened. End of story. 

Only, as they finished circling and found themselves facing a thin strip of dirt road, Stiles realized “kill the hunters” wasn't a plan, as such. Just a general motto for life. The good news? The trap they'd walked into seemed to be the last sentry this side of the road. The bad news? He heard a half-a-dozen hunters before him, standing with Victoria. They'd all have guns, likely aimed at the perimeters. And if a similar trap was set on the right side of the road, and the sniper could see Victoria's group from his position....

Why did they only have one gun? What were Isaac and Jackson supposed to do? Charge the rifle-wielding hunters with claws and fangs? 

Nah, dude. They were fine. Know why? Because Stiles was a card carrying member of the Scooby Gang, and wooden stakes were officially his shit. 

Hell, there were only six hunters! Yeah, they were probably armed with semi-automatic rifles or over-powered shotguns, but they didn't have wooden stakes. So....

He turned back to give both wolves a once over. They looked good. Isaac had a piece of metal shrapnel protruding from his hip … which, yeah, Stiles would have showed more care when dragging him across the ground had he known, but it barely registered as a problem now. Jackson was red and blotchy, the poisoned water still clinging to his skin, but that wasn't a problem at all. They were good to go. 

“Gather stakes of wood,” Stiles said. “You want them balanced, for throwing. Get a big pile. Take opposite sides of the road, and get closer. When you see the first hunter fall, start throwing. Keep moving, and keep trees between you and those guns. I'll cover you the best I can.” 

He took a step away before Isaac could ask, “Where are you going?” 

“I have to handle the sniper.” He reached behind himself and patted the rifle. “If nothing happens in ten minutes, take out their vehicles and wait for Derek.” 

“Stiles....” Isaac thrust his chin into the air and said, “We'll be ready.” 

He nodded, darted across the road, and waded deeper into the woods. One good thing: the sniper was likely hidden from view against those coming from the cabin. If Stiles was lucky, they hadn't anticipated anyone coming from this direction. If Stiles was real lucky, the sniper was still in position. If the explosion had drawn the sniper away, Stiles was wasting time searching for a threat that didn't exist. But he couldn't risk it. 

He couldn't risk hesitation, either. All those snipers they'd passed and avoided? How many of them were running toward Victoria and Allison as Stiles searched? If they beat him back and took up position, Allison would die. They all would. 

Stiles ran silently, his body acclimated to the woods even if his mind wasn't. He welcomed the sheen of sweat growing thicker on his skin. It diluted and washed away the wolfsbane, offering his irritated skin some relief. 

After a torturous five minutes—only able to hope the snipers were positioned parallel to each other—Stiles found a suitable tree and leapt into its branches. It was bitter sweet. He'd wanted to do that. But in his imagination, tree jumping was part of a Twilight-esque “you're a werewolf now” frolic through the woods with Derek. This? Yeah, he could jump into trees. With his rifle, and life or death stakes nipping at his heels. It was lucky. Useful. Not joyous. 

Like today. He was a werewolf for the first time. Meeting his mate as a wolf for the first time. Days ago, he'd worried his lust would overwhelm him. Derek's lust. Today … he couldn't even dwell on being a werewolf. Which was great, because he didn't have that luxury. Losing himself was not an option. But, damn, he resented the loss. 

Stupid fucking hunters. Stiles was a decent guy. A nice, ordinary, werewolf guy. A nice, ordinary guy on a murder spree. But that was perfectly fine. No biggie. Whatever. He'd walk it the fuck off. 

Starting now. Handling time. 

Because, even as he'd been bemoaning his shitty, shitty week, Stiles had been searching the trees. And there, in that tree there, was the sniper. The perfect stranger Stiles planned to put a bullet in. Yep. 

He watched the man for a long minute, making sure the sniper never surveyed behind him, and then swung his gun to the right. Through the scope, he saw the clearing. Allison was sitting at its middle, huddled in upon herself and clutching the hand with the missing pinkie. It was infected, Stiles remembered. Probably painful. He wanted to take out Victoria first. Of course he did. But one of the other hunters—a short, sturdy-looking woman—was patrolling closer to where Isaac and Jackson should be. Though … if he took out the hunter on the other side, closer to the cabin, wouldn't they all turn in that direction? They would. 

Assuming Stiles could hit the man. The clearing wasn't as close as he'd hoped, and he knew just enough about snipers to be keenly aware of his ignorance. From this distance, it wasn't a matter of lining up the shot and taking down a target. There was math involved. Wind pressure and the Earth's rotation, and god knew what else. A head shot was probably too much to hope for. The chest, though....

He aimed, swung the gun to the sniper, aimed again, and swung the gun back. After another two rotations, when he felt assured muscle memory would get him in the ballpark, Stiles aimed for the sniper. 

Ready … set....


	19. Still A Dork

Go! 

Stiles lined up his shot to the back of the sniper's head. Pulled the trigger. A strange, half-formed noise escaped the man. Something turned in Stiles' belly. Recognition. It sounded....

But he was already swinging the gun. Already releasing a second shot. The man standing in the circle with Victoria stumbled, the bullet lodged in his chest. As he fell, the second sniper trap sprung and an explosion rocked the air. 

Ha! Yeah, his ears were stinging, but no one was there. Not like the first trap. The trap that still had Derek running through the woods, hunters on his trail. But Derek … Derek would be fine. Derek was the solider. The bad ass. The alpha. Stupid hunters wanted to chase him, those were dead hunters. 

But, right, shit. No time for Derek. No time for thoughts at all. Someday he'd think again. Someday he'd sleep again. Someday he'd get good and truly laid, but it was handling time. Here we go!

As he'd planned, the hunters turned toward the cabin, their raised guns aimed into the dense, shadowed underbrush. Why they'd choose to fight in the dark, surrounded by woods—

Should have knocked on wood. 

A lot of things happened at once. Victoria pulled something from her pocket. The guard closest to the vehicles screamed as a stake slammed into his chest. Stiles took aim, finger pressing on the trigger. And a dozen flood lights blared to life, sirens screaming. 

“Fuck!” Stiles yelped. 

Blind. He was fucking blind! Night scopes, werewolf vision, and flood lights did not a happy werewolf make. Seriously, though ... blind. Hazy orbs of light swam before his eyes. The disorienting shriek of sirens thrilled into his pulse, sending it skyrocketing. He couldn't hear himself think. 

Securing the gun across his back, Stiles turned to grasp the tree and started shimmying himself toward the ground. As his shirt rucked up and the bark tore at his belly, he contemplated jumping. But … he couldn't see the ground. He hadn't come this far to be impaled by a damn stick. Right? There were sticks? A fallen tree limb? Down there somewhere? It was … down there somewhere. 

He felt like crying, or curling into a ball. Being blind he could have handled, but the sirens had ripped away his mind. He should have remembered where the obstacles were. If he could just think. Impossible. 

Adrenaline and terror tore through him. His body seized halfway down the tree. Even as he scrambled to keep his grip, his muscles cramped and spasmed. A horrible cracking sound preceded a rush of terrible, unanticipated pain, and his left arm broke. His grip on the tree with it. Falling. He was falling. 

Windmilling through the air, his rib cage cracking as he screamed, Stiles fell and fell. He landed on the cool, damp earth in a crumpled heap. Tears streamed from his eyes as he writhed. His frantic terror only seemed to worsen the cracking, rending destruction of his body. Slamming his teeth together, desperate to silence the instinctive howls and shrieks escaping his throat, Stiles felt the explosion of fangs tear into his gums and lips. 

It lasted a lifetime. His body thrashed and convulsed as his mind clung to consciousness with single-minded determination. How easy it would be to give in. To give up. To shut his eyes and escape the pain and slow, ceaseless destruction of his body. 

Every bone broke and reformed. Every one. 

Dulled beneath the scream of sirens, he heard gunfire. A weird … his snout thrust forward. Holy fuck. Holy fuck! 

His moans and whimpers changed in tone. Became animalistic. The pain receded. He blinked and blinked again, his sight slowly returning. It was different. Strange. 

For long seconds he laid there, stunned and destroyed. Then he flipped and flopped to his … to his paws. He shimmied out of his clothing. He was a wolf. Full fucking wolf, baby! 

Who was the best werewolf who ever werewolfed? That's right. Stiles! Total newb? No way! First moon, full transition. Stand back! Stiles was born for this shit. 

He threw his head back and howled his joy. Then, right. Stupid sauce. It was hunting time. 

More gunfire. And, hell no. No one was shooting his pack. Not today, son. Not on his watch. 

Stiles ran. He weaved between trees, leapt over divots in the earth and fallen limbs, didn't chase the squirrel that scurried away at his approach. The sirens were still an irritant, but he ignored them. Just ran. And damn, running was awesome! His legs didn't ache. His lungs didn't burn. He could go forever. 

As he approached the circle of hunters, he had to war with his new instincts. He didn't want to stop. He wanted to rush into the circle and start biting and tearing at his enemies. But, his human mind objected, not a great idea. Teeth against four rifles? Not a great idea. 

Slowing, he slunk around the circle. There were only three rifles, now. Three hunters. Isaac and Jackson had taken out a second hunter. Victoria stood at the circle's center, Allison held tight against her body as she turned in circles, a gun pressed to Allison's temple. The sight terrified him more than the other two hunters spraying bullets into the surrounding woods. 

If Victoria was still trying to die … if she still wanted to take Allison with her? Saving Allison was their only goal, and saving Allison looked impossible. What was Victoria even waiting for? 

Religion. Her religion. 

She couldn't kill herself. That was forbidden, right? Theoretically, she couldn't kill Allison, either. She wanted them to do it for her. Crazy bitch. 

As Allison was jerked this way and that, her gaze met his. Victoria was looking toward where Isaac and Jackson must be, but Allison was looking directly at him. Stiles watched her eyes widen, saw the hatred burning there. She jerked her gaze toward the gun, then looked back at him, her eyes widening again—this time purposefully. 

Her fists clenched, her lips pinched tightly. Stiles understood. Allison was a fighter. She needed that gun away from her temple. Needed an opportunity to fight. She would save herself, if given the chance. 

A howl sounded directly opposite him. Derek! Derek was coming! He lifted his head in a quick howl and then darted away, bullets spraying into the earth behind him. 

He kinda wished he had hands. Hands would be super useful right now. Throwing stakes required hands. 

Yet, his howl proved useful, too. The two hunters who actually wanted to live had turned away from Isaac and Jackson, and one earned a stake in the arm for her efforts. The gun tumbled from her fingers as the woman screamed and cradled her arm. Eyes wide, she broke and ran for her vehicle. 

Moments later, a shuddering scream split the air. Then silence. Stiles kinda hoped she'd only been knocked unconscious. Explaining the trail of bodies would go easier if there were a couple hunters left to be arrested. But, you know, shit happens. 

“Victoria, come on!” urged the last hunter. “We've gotta get out of here!” 

“Stand your ground!” she shrieked. 

Stiles was circling, feeling predatory and hopeful. Eyes on the hunters, he circled. Eyes on the hunters, he felt the tug against his paw. What? 

A wave of deafening sound hit him first. Then the shards of metals. Then the white-hot agony of wolfsbane water. As he flew through the air—a strangled whimper caught in his throat—disorientation and confusion gripped him. It wasn't until he slammed into a tree, a piece of metal jamming deeper into his hind leg, that he could trace the explosion back to a trip wire.

As he slid down the rough bark, the numerous shards of shrapnel catching and slowing his descent, Stiles convulsed. What? No! Not now. 

Already alight with terror and agony, his bones started cracking and breaking. Panting, tears streaming, he writhed until he had hands, then dug his fingers into the damp earth. Each stretch and jolt of his body brought new skin and flesh into contact with the metal. Like the foulest torture, he felt the incremental, slow-motion destruction of his body. 

He was crying. Sobbing as tears fell freely. The pain was so overwhelming he didn't notice when his body stopped shifting. Not for long moments. Even after he did, he couldn't move. Everything felt too hot and too raw. Like that split second after stubbing your toe, when the world flares, when the only option is a terrible, seizing stillness as you anticipate the possible long-term pain. It was like that, only longer. Ceaseless. An eternity. 

“Okay. Stop,” he sobbed. “Just stop. Stop!” 

The metal was soaked with wolfsbane. The wounds wouldn't heal. He was going to bleed out. Die, here, alone, on the forest floor with tears running down his face. 

“Stop!” he ground out. 

The outside of his thigh. That was worse. Hurt bad, but far from any arteries. A smaller shard in his calf. Another near his clavicle. Close to his heart, if the wolfsbane got into his blood stream … but that was a problem for future Stiles. Present Stiles had enough problems of his own. 

Not that he couldn't move. Not that he was a fucking pincushion. Not that Allison was still in danger, or that Jackson and Isaac were facing off against Victoria alone. No. Present Stiles had another hunter—one of the snipers—running toward him. Not toward him. Toward the clearing. Only, he was lying, helpless and naked, in between. Sure to be stumbled over. Sure to be killed. 

Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the long shard embedded near his clavicle and yanked. His toes curled as it shifted and dragged, but didn't immediately slide free. Panting, his fangs sliding free to cut into his gums, he yanked again. Harder. 

Eyes rolling back, he slumped to the ground, the deceptively small torture device grasped in shaking fingers. Fuck! Why did this hurt so much? He was a werewolf, damn it! 

As the quick thud, thud, thud of the hunter's steps grew closer, he craned sideways—still on his belly—to reach the hunk of metal protruding from his outer thigh. Gripping until he felt the edges slice into his fingers, Stiles willed himself to hold tight and jerked his upper body straight. 

More tearing. More pain. Blood on the air. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could barely hear the hunter's approach over the slamming pulse of his heart. 

Rolling to his back, he stared up at the canopy and panted. Cried a little more. What? He wasn't ashamed. Terrified. Helpless. Desperate and frustrated. But not ashamed. 

And his hands. He held them before his face. Watched blood well from the gashes and slide down his wrists. For a second he stalled out. Just laid there. Almost shut his eyes. 

A howl. Derek! Derek was coming! Derek … no fucking way was one hunter's wild, huffing and puffing, graceless careen through the woods going to end him. No fucking way!

He sat up, gripped the last asshole piece of metal in his calf and yanked. Blood spurted. It hurt. Whatever. 

And he was a werewolf now, so crawling on his hands and knees through the woods was par for the course, right? Standing was for losers. Crawling around naked, leaving a very manly blood trail in your wake, was secretly bad ass as hell. So, obviously, that's what he did. 

He crawled himself into a dried out creek bed, right in the hunter's path, grabbed himself an only slightly-rotten hunk of wood, and waited. As the hunter neared, he heard her quick puffs of breath, heard the slap of her gun as it bounced across her back. Waited. Waited. 

She leapt. Stiles reached up, grabbed her ankle, and yanked. She hit the ground with a surprised shriek and he slammed the hunk of wood into her face. When she reeled, dazed but conscious, he huffed and hit her again. There. Quiet. Still. 

Securing her gun across his back, he turned to leave. He had taken a … well, a crawl … he'd started to crawl away when he heard her phone buzz. He shuffled farther, then paused. Clearly, bad-ass werewolf Stiles was out of the equation. But genius Stiles? Yeah, okay, a couple IQ points had probably been thumped out of him, but whatever. He had IQ to spare. Because he was a fucking genius. 

A half-formed plan swirled in his mind, and he returned for the phone. It might not help with problem A, but problem B and C? He could make this work. 

Holding the phone between his lips—which, actually, was harder than he'd thought—he shuffled his way back to the clearing. He watched for trip wires. Would watch for trip wires for the rest of his damn life, thank you. 

The clearing was much the same as he'd left it. Victoria had one hand in Allison's hair and the other holding a gun to her temple. The other hunter wasn't aiming his gun toward the woods, but at Victoria. He looked … sweaty. Sweaty and nervous. Desperate. But there was no way to get at Victoria without killing Allison. 

Another howl split the air. Unlike the previous calls, it didn't fill Stiles with hope. Derek was coming, but he wasn't close enough. Everyone was too tense in the clearing. Allison most of all. Her fists were clenched and her gaze was distant and cold. 

Stiles fiddled with the phone, then set it aside, atop a tree stump. God willing, it had a good microphone. A magic microphone that could filter out the incessant shrill of the damn siren. 

“Victoria!” he bellowed. And, yeah, okay, the fierceness in his voice might be in direct correlation to the uselessness of his body, but that's what a bluff was. “It's over! You're surrounded, and you're under arrest! Release Allison and give yourself up!” 

“There's only one way out of this!” Victoria yelled. 

“What?” The other hunter looked toward the woods, his gun useless at his side. “I didn't sign up for this! This was a mistake! Please. I'm sorry!” 

“She wants to die,” Stiles said loudly. “This was a suicide mission, and she sacrificed you all. She wants to play the martyr. Don't you, Victoria? You want to die in a big public splash and revitalize the crusade against werewolves. Tell him! You signed him up to die. Tell him the truth!” 

“That's not true,” the hunter said softly. “Victoria, tell him.” 

She shrugged, but her sneer spread. “I wouldn't expect you to understand.” 

Grunting, Stiles riled her further. “That you're crazy? I think we're all starting to get that. You're trying to kill your own daughter!” 

“I explained that already!” she screamed. “She's going to be fouled. She's going to forfeit her soul! I'm saving us all!” 

The hunter, looking horrified, started backing away. “I'm not a part of this. I … a werewolf killed my sister. I thought … I don't belong here. I don't know what's happening. Please.” 

“Put your gun down. Run.” 

Nodding frantically, the man lowered his gun to the ground slowly and held his hands out before him. He kept his gazed fixed on Victoria as he slowly backed away. Stiles did, too. Part of him hoped she snapped and killed the deserter, if only because it would get the gun away from Allison's temple. 

“Get back here! Coward! You gave me your life. This is the best use of it! You'll be rewarded in Heaven. An eternity of paradise!” 

“Do you even know his sister's name? Do you know anything about him? I don't think you do. I think you see him a faceless pawn. It's your chess board, right? You march the pawns to their deaths?” 

“I do what has to be done. What they're too weak to do. It is my chess board. I am the queen! That's the Argent way!” 

Stiles heard a startled shriek as Isaac or Jackson took down the hunter. Then it was just Victoria, desperate to kill herself and take her daughter with her. He couldn't get off a clean shot, not with Victoria holding Allison between them. And her fingers could very well seize, Stiles knew, if she was shot. How many times had he seen crime scene photos with the deceased's hands locked around whatever they'd been holding. A death grip. 

Victoria wanted to die. If involuntary muscle spasms took Allison with her … that might be a loop hole in her crazy, religious mind. He needed that gun pointed somewhere else. At him. 

“Mom!” Allison started shaking her head, her expression fierce and reckless. “Let me go.” 

Victoria tightened her grip in Allison's hair, dragging her daughter onto her tiptoes. “Be still, child.” 

“No!” 

Oh, shit. Allison was done. He could see it in her face. He remembered earlier, in that hallway, when Victoria had the knife to Allison's back. Her frantic begging for Stiles to kill them both. She'd been captured, tortured, watched her father get shot, and all by her mother's decree. She was done, and Stiles couldn't blame her, but shit was about to go sideways. Derek was too far away. Or....

“We're not going to kill you, Victoria! That's too good for you. We're going to give you what you're most afraid of. The bite. Derek's going to bite you.” 

Her hand trembled, but she thrust her chin into the air. “Derek's not here!” 

“He is! He's right here. A wolf. Full transition. You want to see the snap of his fangs?”

“You're lying!” 

“Release Allison, now! Release her, or you'll be bitten!” 

“I'll kill her!” 

“You won't. You kill her, you're going to hell. Killing your own daughter? God could never forgive that. And it won't matter if you do, because Derek will bite you anyway! We'll lock you away, in a padded cell, and you'll turn. Your soul will tainted forever!” 

“Shut up! Derek isn't here!” 

“He is! Release her! Now!” 

“You're lying!” 

Shit. He was. Obviously, he was. He had a backup plan, but he'd really hoped the bluff would work. Because the backup plan was forcing Victoria to aim that gun at him. Hopefully he could turn. Maybe he could work up a compelling charge with chunks missing from his legs and blood trailing behind him. Maybe Allison could fight once Victoria dropped the gun. No way could he dodge and weave and reach her before she got off a shot. 

But the bluff hadn't worked, and Allison was on the brink of getting herself shot, and … fuck. He had to transform again. 

“You've got a minute! Think carefully, Victoria!” 

His voice sounded a little shrill, but whatever. Just the prospect of indescribable pain. No biggie. 

Setting the gun aside, he called for the wolf and braced himself. Nothing happened. He tried again, flinching even as he did. Shit! It was the fear. The bracing and flinching. But excuse the hell out of him. That shit hurt! 

Not as badly as letting Allison die, though. Nothing would hurt as bad or as long as that. Throwing his defenses wide, he begged for the pain—chased it. His eyes pulsed. His fangs surged free. Triumphant, he grinned as he imagined his bones breaking. In his mind, he cracked and snapped every bone. He imaged the moon above him. Imagined his paws hitting earth. Something snapped. 

Instead of shying away from the pain, he embraced it like an old friend. And then his body was snapping and convulsing. But … it didn't hurt. Not really. True, his scale for pain had widened by an ocean over the last day, but it felt right. Not good, exactly, but right. Like a sore back stretched just right, until a domino effect of cracks cascaded down the spine. 

When the snapping and cracking stopped, he, basically, felt like a bad ass. Or, he did until he put weight on his hind legs. Swallowing the yelp was an epic battle of will power. Forcing himself to take a step was another. From the edge of the clearing to Victoria was at least five big steps. If he collapsed before he reached her, this wouldn't work. If he teetered forward, looking like Victoria could kick him away, this wouldn't work. He had to charge. He had to look like he was a healthy, ferocious alpha wolf … not a seriously wounded newb. 

And, hell, a few theatrics couldn't hurt. So, he hobbled to the clearing's edge and started snarling and growling. Threw his head back in a howl. Victoria met his gaze, her eyes widening. He crouched, squared himself up, and bared his teeth. All he needed was Victoria's sense of self-preservation to overwhelm her conscious mind. If anything would do it, the sight of a charging wolf should. He hoped. God, he hoped. 

He leapt, snarling and snapping as he charged, trying to look as ferocious as possible. When he landed, his legs wobbled, but he stayed upright. Flashing her a wolfy grin, he leapt again. Her hand tightened around the gun, her muscles trembled, but … she wasn't blinking. 

“Turn her, Derek!” Isaac yelled. “Make her a werewolf!” 

Blink. 

Stiles leapt into the air, jaws snapping, and Victoria flinched. Her hand swung, the muzzle of the gun tracking him. Shit. Shit. Mission accomplished, so yay! But … she was going to shoot him in the fucking head! 

He twisted in midair, trying to throw himself sideways. A gunshot. Another. Pain erupted in his side, and Stiles hit the ground with a thud. Even as his body exploded with pain, he braced himself for the killing blow. But … it didn't come. Writhing and whimpering, he thrashed until he could see Allison. She was on her knees, sobbing as she crawled away from Victoria's still body. 

“Stiles!” 

Derek! He whined deep in his throat, desperate for his mate. People were running. People were yelling. All he could do was watch Allison crawl and crawl. Then Isaac was falling to his knees before her, gathering her shaking body in his arms. 

He blinked and his own body was shaking. Convulsing. Seizing. At the first crack of bone, he rolled his eyes. Sure. Why the fuck not. Let's do this again. 

He settled into the white-hot explosion of agony, and it washed through him like a wave. The bullet in his side traveled and dug in. Then he was panting, naked and bleeding on the ground. 

“Stiles!” Derek fell to the ground beside him, his hands sliding through the blood on his side. “Christ, Stiles. You're okay. You're going to be okay.” 

Blinking up at Derek's beautiful face, he forced a smile and ground out, “Duh. Just a flesh wound.” 

You know, if you could count a bullet digging into your ribs as a flesh wound. Every breath was agony. Werewolf ribs, though, were the shit. Werewolf ribs, given the perfect angle and the hand of God, stopped bullets. Still wasn't awesome, feeling a bullet rub against those ribs with every breath. 

“I need wolfsbane,” Derek said. “Ethan, search the vehicles!” 

Newly aware of the shrill scream of sirens again, Stiles said, “Could you … there's a remote in her pocket. Kill the damn siren, would you?” 

Derek nodded and scurried toward Victoria's dead body. Watching him, Stiles noticed the nasty, bloody mess her head had become for the first time. The sight didn't really faze him, which did. Whatever. He'd killed too many people to cry over Victoria Argent—whom he hadn't killed; who wanted to kill her own daughter. Karma, bitch. 

Yeah, it was a probably a good thing he didn't intend to stay with the FBI. He wouldn't be cleared for duty anytime soon. Or, maybe, he'd be more human once he got her bullet out of his body. Time would tell.

Derek pulled the control for the flood lights and sirens out of her pocket. He switched it off. 

Blessed darkness. Blessed silence. 

Sobbing with relief, he relaxed against the ground and panted up at the sky. Through the brisk night air, he saw a sprinkling of stars. Perhaps there'd be more, if his eyes adjusted—if he laid there long enough. Not like he was going anywhere. What with the searing pain and all. He laughed softly to himself, the adrenaline slowly fading from his body. 

His momentary peace was disrupted by sounds coming from the forest. More clumsy running. Stupid hunters. Didn't they know the fight was over? With a roll of his eyes, he announced, “Snipers are coming.” 

“On it!” Jackson called and darted into the woods, Boyd following him. 

“Watch for trip wires!” he yelled. 

Derek was back at his side a moment later, grasping for his hand. “Hang in there, Stiles.” 

He laughed again. Didn't know how to express that the broken and bloody state of his body wasn't particularly noteworthy to him. Not when Derek looked panicked and afraid. Instead, he dragged Derek's hand to his mouth and kissed it. 

“We did it,” he whispered. “Serial killers, dead. Crazy hunters, dead. We did it, Derek.” 

Derek leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “You did it, baby. You were so strong. And your wolf!” Despite the forced excitement in his voice, Stiles saw the strain in his eyes. “You're beautiful. So strong. You can do this.” 

Reaching up, he tried smoothing the worry from Derek's brow. “I'm okay, dear.” He grinned. His endearment for nagging. He wondered if Derek remembered. “I'm not worried, really. I trust you.” 

Derek frowned, pouting a little. He remembered! Stiles' grin widened. “I know you're in pain,” Derek said. 

“Eh.” He waved the words away. “Pain and I are buds. It's all good.” 

Talking, though, if he were honest, pretty much sucked. Every breath brought the bullet buried in his ribs into grinding contact. But he wouldn't be himself if he wasn't rambling on about something. And Derek wouldn't be Derek if he wasn't taking care of him. 

“I love you,” Stiles breathed. “You're my favorite. Always.” 

“I got back as soon as I could. I tried to hurry. I swear.” 

“What?” Stiles squeezed his hand, trying out an affronted glare. “You don't love me, anymore? I've been shot, man! Tell me I'm a glorious, sexy beast.” 

“Shut up.” He dragged his fingers over Stiles' lips. “You know you're my world.” 

“Aw. You're sweet.” 

“To you.” 

Ethan came bounding over, smelling heavily of sweat and clutching a bag of wolfsbane in his hand. “I found it!” 

He pressed the wolfsbane and a lighter into Derek's hand and then took a big step backward. Right? Stiles wished he could join him. Because, this? This was going to suck. 

“I'll be as gentle as possible.” 

“Aw, honey, you know I like it rough.” He waggled his eyebrows at Derek, hoping for a grin. When a pinched frown was Derek's only response, Stiles thumped the back of his head against the ground and groaned. “Just be quick.” 

He wasn't. Honestly, Stiles would have preferred painful and quick over careful and slow, but Derek was running the show. And he took forever! Stiles was distracted the first few minutes, as he assured Allison her father was—likely—in the hospital, and that they'd go for Scott soon. But, as her sobs quieted and the minutes dragged, Stiles was fantasizing about shoving Derek's hands away and digging the bullet out with his claws before the damn thing finally popped free. Sweet, overwhelming relief flooded him. 

Until Derek packed the wound with wolfsbane and lit it on fire. Turns out, that wasn't a great time, either. Also, there was a reason he didn't own any cologne called “Burning Flesh.” It stank—if that wasn't clear. 

When Derek finished with the wound on his clavicle, he moved downward—out of sight. Missing his mate already, Stiles shuffled onto his elbows and glanced down his body toward Derek. But … huh. 

“I'm naked,” he observed. “I, ah … everyone saw me naked.” 

Derek smirked. “That happens.” 

“Right, sure. But ... I can't be naked. My hero walk will look ridiculous with my jangly bits swinging in the wind.” 

Stopping his careful prodding, Derek glanced up. “Hero walk?” 

“Yeah, you know, when we walk toward the cops in slow motion, all bloody and bad ass? Ideally there'd be an explosion in the background, but I'm kinda done with explosions, so....”

Derek ducked his head, hiding a soft smile. “You're still a dork.” 

“Shut up.” 

“No.” His hand slid over Stiles' knee. “I'm glad.” 

“Have no fear. I shall remain forever dorky.” 

Three minutes later, Stiles was humming to himself and listening very closely to Allison's erratic, distressed breathing. Because this was a serious fucking situation, damn it! And being naked while Derek knelt between his thighs, Stiles' leg held up in the air—to doctor his calf, obviously—was confusing. To parts of his body very much on display. 

“Almost finished,” Derek said. 

Stiles squirmed and muttered, “Yeah, me too.” 

Derek blinked up at him, trying to look innocent. Stiles saw the mischief and pleasure in his eyes. Which, really, the entire situation was absurd. That he could be even a little aroused while pain sizzled through his body, while several dead bodies laid within twenty feet? He might be forever dorky, but he was different. Altered. 

But sex was life affirming and all that, right? He needed to affirm his life. To feel Derek's body atop his, pressing him down, and know they were both alive. Not that he'd be saying that. He could hear Jackson and Boyd returning, each dragging a body—hopefully unconscious. His wounds were almost treated. It was about that time again: roll out time. 

As soon as he found pants. 

***

Fifteen minutes later—wearing the pants of an unconscious hunter—Stiles stepped out of a borrowed SUV, leaving four unconscious hunters hogtied in the back. Derek joined him, and then the others, and they started their hero walk. It was better than Stiles could have imagined. A news crew was held at bay behind a barricade, but snapped pictures and rolled film, calling questions. And the pack walked, strolled, toward the police cruisers, all bad ass and victorious. 

For, like, five seconds. 

Then Erica was barreling toward them and into Boyd's arms. Which, yeah, that was okay. A standard of the genre. But after that it kinda lost its majesty as everyone crowded around her, asking desperate questions. 

“Scott?” Allison demanded. 

Erica ducked her head. “Still inside.” 

“The sirens are off,” Isaac noted. 

“Yeah, they're negotiating with the police. I think....” She clapped a hand to Allison's shoulder and drew her into a hug. “It's going to be okay, Allison. I think it's going to be fine.”

Everyone deflated just the smallest bit, the tension bleeding from their shoulders. Grinning, Stiles asked, “Where's my dad?” 

Erica's eyes widened. “Ah....” 

A hand gripped his shoulder and swung him around. As strong arms circled his body and squeezed, a surprised huff of air left his lungs. Just as he raised his arms to return the hug, his dad drew back and smacked him upside the head. 

“Are you out of your mind?” he hissed. Motioning up and down Stiles' bare, bloody chest and his—now that he thought about it—probably bloody face, John said, “You look like a damn serial killer!” 

Spree killer, actually. He definitely had the body count for a murder spree. Only, this was war. Except, it wasn't. Man, he really hoped the FBI was feeling generous. 

Gulping, he said, “Yeah, I didn't ... and then, with the hero walk … my bad.” 

“The rest of you don't look much better.” He cast a disapproving eye over the group, then gathered Stiles close for another hug. “No more excitement for awhile, okay?” 

“Your lips to God's … wait, Dad? Did you find Grady?” 

John suddenly looked pissed, his face closing down in a blink of an eye. “Not yet.” 

“I'm pretty sure he's, ah, handled. In the woods. He was one of the snipers.” 

“Snipers?” He ran a hand over his face. “What happened out there, Stiles?” 

He shrugged, at a loss for words. Which, right, new and different for him. Finally, he said, “War.”

Looking none too impressed, his dad waved him away. “There's a spare shirt in the back of the cruiser. Go put it on. And find a wet wipe or something.” 

“First?” Stiles held the hunter's phone up. “I need a bull horn.”


	20. Ninjas and Wolfmen

One Week Later: 

 

“Pick up. Pick up!” 

Stiles braced a foot against the bathroom door and listened to the ringing phone with rising desperation. Finally! Derek's voice cascaded over the line and, with a full-body shudder of relief, he clung to every clipped word of the ten second voice-mail message. Then it ended. 

“You have to wrap that, Scott. Please. Be more careful.” 

“Stiles isn't wrapping anything.” 

Allison made a soft noise and whispered, “Stiles is having a rough time.” 

“So am I! This place stinks!” 

All true. All completely true. Stiles was having a rough time. And he'd know, being Stiles and all. And, yeah, it was totally possible to track his emotional state based solely on the progression of neatly packed boxes to shit-thrown-haphazardly-inside boxes. Also, the entire city stank. And not a little. Turns out, there was no such thing as an indoor werewolf. 

But ignoring the agony of being separated from Derek, being surrounded by strange smells and people, and listening to Allison and Scott lovingly bicker, things were basically good. As good as he could hope for and then some. Chris was already on his feet and bitching about the hospital food. The FBI was more than happy to take credit for his … creative problem solving. Which, you know, is a super polite term for the bodies he left in his wake, but not like he started that shit. 

Finished it, though. Finished it like a fucking pro. 

But, yeah, no one was going to jail. And he had a nice six-months forced mental-health vacation. Paid. Of course, he'd been promised a glowing recommendation letter before leaving the office, so … it was one of those don't-make-us-fire-you things. But whatever. D.C smelled like shit. Literally. 

And there was Derek. Whom he had to return to. Now. Post haste. Immediately. Seriously, though, all kidding aside, right the fuck now. Only, thanks to some nasty reporters tormenting Allison, and Stiles being too shiny new to be left alone, he had an Allison and Scott escort. If this were a one man job, if he was in charge right now, he'd be chucking shit out the bathroom window. There was a dumpster down there and everything, he'd checked. 

But he wasn't in charge. Scott, recently released from being tortured thanks to a bull horn and Victoria's less-than-motivational speech, had joined Stiles on the right-fucking-now train. But Allison had attacked packing up his apartment like it was the most important task she'd ever been given.

And, yeah, her mom was crazy, and all dead and shit. Her pinkie was missing. She was distracting herself with the epic task of bubble-wrapping his gaming systems. He should have sympathy.

He was ten minutes away from sending her for coffee and burning the place to the ground. 

Actually, yeah, fires … too soon. But, really. It was time to go. Right fucking now!

He scrabbled for his phone when it rang and jerked it to his ear. Derek!

“Everything all right?” 

The sound of his mate's voice sizzled through his body like a shot of vodka. Stiles leaned back against the wall—foot jammed against the door—and sighed. 

“Stiles? Are you okay?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I'm … happy to hear your voice.” 

“Erica! Gentle with the damn human! Boyd, get him out of here.” There was the sound of shuffling movement, and the click of a door. Their bedroom. Their bed. 

Please....

And this, this was why he'd looked at the jangle of metal cookware at the bottom of a cardboard box, shrugged, and sat the printer on top. He remembered staring down at it for a second, shrugging again, and sealing the box with heavy packing tape. You know, the extra strong kind with strings running through it? Then, with a subtle glare at Allison, he'd added three more layers. Because, hugs and kisses, Allison, but fuck off already. 

The point was, he missed Derek. Yearned for Derek. Ached for him, heart to toes. And cock. Let's not forget cock. Because, if he didn't get the weight of Derek's chest pressing him into the mattress—now—he might lose his mind. 

“Another damn reporter! Fuck! When are you coming home?” 

“As soon as Allison lets me.” Dragging a hand over his face, he bit back a whole lot of commentary, and said, “I miss you like crazy.” 

“When I catch your scent, my knot aches. Every time.” 

A line of fire twisted through him. Cock hardening, ass clenching, he fought the instinctual need to crawl to his belly on the cold linoleum floor. To stretch and purr. To offer his ass. 

“I....” He blinked. Words. Some combination of letters and punctuation. “Research. I'm going to, with the books, because this is just, wow. Abnormal. Not at all of the norm.” 

“You feel what you feel. No one can tell you what's normal.” 

Stiles groaned. “Stop. I cannot be a part of this.” 

A low growl proceeded the soft gravel of Derek's voice. He said, “A part of what? Am I doing something?” 

“Derek, please. You have to stop.” Stiles curled his fingernails into his palms, resisting the urge to pant. “Red. For real. You're driving me crazy. Only, literally. Not the cutesy, abstract dirty talk way. I want you so bad, I'm actually going crazy.”

“Baby—”

“No! No, baby! Conversation topics are limited to … no, you know what, just … don't say anything at all. Give me a damn second. Just, don't say anything.” 

This was no joke. He had to hang up the phone at some point. He had to leave the bathroom and perform tasks expected of him by society. And Allison. If the nagging, gut-wrenching ache for Derek's voice hadn't destroyed him, he wouldn't have dared the call at all. 

Derek exhaled. A shiver sizzling down Stiles' spine. The rasp of sound lingered in his mind, echoing loudly. Until it was replaced by another. 

“How are you still being sexy!” 

He huffed out a pained breath. “It's seeping from my pores.” 

“Derek … you don't know.” 

“I do. Baby, let me take the edge off. We need it.” 

“Nope!” Stiles jumped to his feet, shaking his head as if it might jar the words loose. “I didn't hear that. That's not happening.” 

“Ssh. Relax.” The asshole hummed. Purred. “Trust your body.” 

“Trust my ... are you new? Me, in the backseat of some rental, driving across the country, sweating buckets and cursing your name—that's sexy to you? Because, let me tell you, needing you has driven me crazy twice. It's not sexy!” 

Silence settled. Even Derek's breathing was gone. Muted. 

It was exactly what he'd demanded, and not at all what he wanted. Needed. 

With a sob, he admitted, “I don't know what to do.” 

“Get home to me.” Derek blew out a harsh breath. “And don't call again. I can't ... I can't.” 

“Me, either.” 

When, half an hour later, he ventured out of the bathroom, Scott sent him a sideways glance as he tugged the toaster's cord from the wall. Crumbs and all, it went into a box. Allison bit her lip as she taped the box shut. 

***

Something was weird. Weirder than the crazy thrumming of his body and half-assed trickle of his thoughts. Really, all told, he was kicking the ass of this … mating call or whatever. Heat—he suspected the right word was “heat.” But he was still upright, pretending to smile, and answering questions directly aimed at him, so … win! 

The weird part, though? Once they'd started the drive back to Beacon Hills, Scott got attentive. Real attentive. First came the nonstop, worried looks and questions regarding his health and happiness. Then came the praise. Like, glowing praise. Stiles' struggles and battles were relayed back at him, like Scott was establishing an oral history and Stiles was his God. After that, Allison had been banished to the backseat and Scott had, honest to god, fastened Stiles' seat belt and spent fifteen minutes searching the boxes for a pillow—which he'd gently placed behind Stiles' head.

Ten minutes ago, they'd passed a billboard and Stiles had made the mistake of muttering, “I could destroy some Pringles.” So, obviously, he was now sitting in a gas station parking lot, waiting for Scott to return with life-saving nourishment. 

All of which ... pretty damn weird. 

Glancing into the rear-view mirror, he met Allison's gaze. 

“Sorry,” he whispered. “About Scott. I don't know—”

“It's great, right?” Allison said, grinning. 

“Like, objectively funny? I guess.” 

“No, you idiot.” Great, roll your eyes at the half-crazy guy, Allison. Not like he went on a killing spree to save your life or anything. “The pack is unified. Strong. Scott acknowledges Derek as his alpha.” 

He ran a hand over his face, making a conscious decision to think this puzzle through but making no real effort to do so. Instead, he shifted in his seat, increasingly aware of the slippery feeling between his ass cheeks. Super charming. 

“I, ah … how so?” 

Her expression softened. Like pity. Or condescension. Like she was talking to a child. It sucked. 

“Stiles, you're in heat, honey. To a random wolf, you'd, you know, register as sex. But to your pack, especially as the alpha's mate, you register as someone to be protected. Doting on you is instinct.”

He nodded, not that interested. “Nifty.” 

A minute passed and he shut his eyes, thinking warm thoughts about a nap. He jerked back awake when Allison said, “Anyway, we should get back before the symptoms really start.” 

“They've started,” he grumbled. 

“No. Honey, they haven't.” 

Great. Super. Absolutely bloody brilliant. He'd been attributing his sanity to an obvious mastery of everything werewolf. But, if Allison was right, he hadn't mastering anything. Was just wallowing and waiting as insanity circled ever closer. 

“Ignorance is bliss, sometimes. You know that, right?” 

She shrugged and Stiles watched her gaze travel to her absent pinkie finger. Expression suddenly cold, she huffed out a breath and said, “Man up, Stilinski.” 

Right....

A long, awkward minute later, Scott wandered out of the gas station. He was rifling through a hefty-looking plastic bag, his expression caught somewhere between anxious and hopeful. Jesus. Stiles couldn't help but laugh. This was his life. 

A flicker of movement. Two shotguns, held by two black-clad … assassins. Ex military? An elite hunting squad? 

“Scott!” 

Stiles scrambled for door handle. Scott dropped the plastic bag. Behind him, the car door opened. 

“Move and she dies!” 

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, Stiles saw a black ski mask, and a gun aimed at Allison's temple.

“Get in the driver's seat!” 

Fingers edging toward his gun, he asked, “Well, which is it? Move and she dies, or get in the driver's seat? Because that definitely requires moving, and I don't want any misunder—” 

A gunshot erupted—Stiles' eardrums with it. Toward the ground, through the SUV. No explosion, no explosion, no explosion! …. Shaking the disorientation away, he watched Allison slam the guy's head into the already cracked window. Already cracked and already bloody. In fact.... 

“Allison. Allison! He's down!” 

“I am not,” slam “the fucking” slam “hostage!” 

Slam! 

“Scott needs us!” he screamed. “Get the gun!” 

Jumping from the SUV, Stiles ran for Scott. Who was putting up a hell of a fight. One of the attackers was sprawled upon the concrete, the other down a gun and outmatched. Stiles kept running. 

Because this was his life. And nothing was ever that easy. Where were the deafening sirens? The firetrucks drowning them with poisoned water? 

Right on cue, a van screeched onto the scene. When its side door flew open, Stiles' reared back—expecting reinforcements with machine guns. Instead, a masked man jumped out to retrieve his fallen comrade. But Stiles wasn't watching him. He was watching the man in the van, and the gun pressed to some chick's temple. 

What? 

The woman was trembling. Crying. Not happy. Muttering something. Was that … not English? 

“Witch!” Allison screamed. 

Shit! The prisoner was a witch, and the witch was staring at Allison. Muttering something. Visible energy gathering in her cupped palms. Stiles raised his gun. But the chick was still crying and looking all abducted and shit. The man behind her was crouched down, using her sobbing face as a bulletproof vest. Allison started shooting the van. Literally. The van. 

As he blinked like an idiot, the ball of energy grew and grew. He saw the woman's expression change; heard her voice begin to crescendo. 

Damn it! 

He ran for Allison. As fast as he could, he ran. He'd grab her. Keep running. Come back for Scott. He'd … his arm circled Allison's body. Blue, crackling energy engulfed them both. As his muscles seized and his head swam, it was all he could do to brace Allison's fall as they clattered to the ground. 

Stiles blinked. Blinked again. What the hell? 

“Let go of me!” 

A hard elbow landed in his gut, his breath leaving him in a startled huff. Seriously, what the hell? He threw his arms wide and struggled to sit as a pretty, dark haired woman scurried away from him. 

A bloodcurdling roar had Stiles jerking toward the sound. Two men were trying to drag a third man toward a van. Trying and failing. Which made no sense, because the dude wasn't that big, and.... 

“Holy crap!” 

Another roar ripped from the creature's throat. Creature! His face was.... 

Stiles jumped to his feet, his gaze darting around the parking lot desperately. He stalled out gaping at the woman, who was gaping back at him. We saw her spot the guns on the ground and a tense moment passed. Then, as one, their gazes swung toward the sound of gunshots. In the middle of the road, shooting at the retreating van, stood the creature. Then it turned its head and looked directly at them. Shit! Shit, shit, shit! Were those fangs? 

“Go,” the woman whispered. “The SUV with the open door. On three.” 

Stiles glanced backward, found the vehicle, and whispered, “Three.” 

He'd like to say he gave the woman a head start, or covered her six, or whatever. He didn't. He didn't even pause to grab the gun. He ran for the driver's seat as fast as his legs could carry him. Which, he must be a track star or something, because barring a fully-functional blackout somewhere during the journey, he was crazy fast. 

Finding the keys in the ignition, he sent up a prayer of thanks and started the engine. A second later, the woman jumped into the passenger seat. 

“He's coming! Oh my god. Go, go, go!”

Kicking the SUV into reverse, he sped backward out of the parking lot. Gaze flickering between the rear-view mirror and the windshield, he watched the creature gaining ground. Coming right for them. Like some fanged, wolfman terminator. 

Flying onto the busy road backward earned them a few honked horns, but … you know, extreme circumstances. He jerked it into drive and went. Forward. Quickly. 

“Okay, what was that? Who are you? Who am I?” The woman in the passenger seat jerked down the visor, looked in the mirror, and gasped. “Holy shit! Why am I so old? And fuck me, what happened to my finger?”

She thrust a bandaged hand with a missing pinkie finger into his line of sight. Stiles offered a sympathetic grimace and opened his mouth to speak, but she rushed on, “Look in the mirror. Does that look right to you?”

Looking away from the road while fleeing from a wolfman didn't seem right to him. Actually, if pressed, he could compose quite the list of things not right. Everything that was happening right now? Not right. Not remembering anything prior to now? Not right? His weird hypersensitivity to sights, sounds, and smells? The pulsing of his body? All, decidedly, not right. 

“Dude?” The woman snapped her fingers in his face, but all he could see was her missing pinkie. “Are you with me?” 

“Sorry, yeah.” Obediently, he pulled down the visor, glanced in the mirror for a split second, then got his eyes back on the road. “Seems fine, I guess. I haven't thought about my age.” 

“I didn't think about it. I just looked in the mirror and thought, holy shit! Why am I so old? You were there, you heard. Anyway, find us a back road. And hurry.” 

Bemused, Stiles glanced at her. “Who are you?” 

“Good question.” She looked anxious suddenly, which only highlighted how stoically she'd reacted to the wolfman and flying bullets. “Better question? Who's the unconscious guy in the backseat? And how long before a shattered, bloodstained window gets us pulled over?” 

Without thinking, he pumped the brakes and craned backward to look. Oh, holy moly! There was some ninja looking jerk in the backseat! And the window had “probable cause” written all over it. 

“We have to get off this road.” 

“Duh!” 

Stiles flinched and started forward again. Part of him wanted to escape. To drive like a mad man and outpace everyone and everything. But he couldn't outrun the man in his backseat. What he could do was draw attention to their many felonies and go to jail. So, he hit cruise control and searched the middle console for a bottle of water.

“Could you please....” He handed the bottle to his mystery companion. “You could use it to get the blood off the window. Please.” 

He braced himself for an argument, but she nodded and leapt to the task. Stiles could only watch out of the corner of his eye—awed—as she jerked a pillowcase off a random pillow, soaked it with water, and craned backward to wipe down the window. She was handy. And, it kinda worked. Stubborn blood had seeped into the cracked glass, but it was better. 

When the woman gave up and tossed the pillowcase at her feet, another silence settled. But Stiles was too busy searching for a turn off to fill it. Anyway, silence was perfect. All the questions he couldn't answer were pushed aside. Right now, he was running. 

“I know you, right?” 

Stiles glanced at the woman, startled. “I don't know. Do you?” 

“I....” She squinted at him. “I don't know. Do you?” 

“What? Lady, I don't remember anything. You know that.” 

“But do I? Do I really know that? Seems pretty convenient.” 

He glanced at her, bewildered. “Not really.” 

“So, you're saying you don't remember?” 

What was happening? Wasn't he supposed to be driving? How was he supposed to drive, ignore the not right, and talk to her at the same time? Starting to breathe a little faster, he said, “I don't understand. Do you remember?” 

She leaned away from him, her body suddenly tense and hostile. Stiles watched the sweep of her eyes and knew she was looking for a weapon. That, he knew. What he'd done to spark her fear, he had no idea. But, in pondering it, he missed the turn off he'd been waiting for. 

His knuckles cracked where he gripped the steering wheel. 

She whispered, “Why are you avoiding the question?” 

“I don't remember anything! Okay? All I'm thinking about is how to run, how to ditch this vehicle, and how to avoid being tracked. I'm thinking about whether to dump that guy in an alley or interrogate him, and somehow I know how I'd make him talk. But that's all I know, all I'm thinking about. The first memory I have is you elbowing me in the stomach. And if you think you're better off on foot, without me, say so right now and I'll pull over.” 

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “So, simultaneous, unexplainable amnesia? That's what you're going with? We both lost our memories at the exact same time? Because that happens?”

“Please, lady—”

“Stop calling me that!” 

“Then pick a name!” he yelled, then shuddered as his entire body flashed hot. God, what was wrong with him? “Please, just pick any name.” 

“I don't know my name!” 

“Could you stop yelling? You're so loud.” 

Huffing, she crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. Stiles couldn't focus enough to care. Problems, and questions, and terrors were flashing through his mind, but nothing got answered or resolved. He needed a plan, but couldn't string the thoughts together. His body pulsed. Everything was hypersensitive. And nothing made sense. 

“They might have drugged me,” he whispered. 

“Says the guy driving the car.” 

“I'm serious.” He took a deep breath and released it. “Do you feel weird?” 

“I've got amnesia and I'm missing a finger! Of course I feel weird!” 

Stiles felt his teeth snap together. “Could you be nicer? Just a little? It's not helping anything, you acting like a....” 

He shouldn't have said that. 

“Go on, say it! Call me a bitch. Why don't we make that my name, huh? Call me 'Bitch.'” 

He hit the turning signal and escaped the busy road. Unfortunately, he'd left the wolfman behind a long time ago and his two biggest problems were in the car with him. 

“So—”

She cut in with a quick, “Bitch. Go on. You were saying, 'So, Bitch....'” 

“I wasn't going to say that.” 

“Yeah, you were. You were going to say, 'So, Bitch, blah, blah, blah,' and I was going to answer, 'Sure thing, Dick.'” 

Stiles grumbled, “Yeah, well, Dick's a man's name. So, there.” 

“How about asshat? Is asshat a man's name?” 

He growled. Honestly to god growled. Blinking back his surprise, he bit out, “Do we dump the guy or interrogate him?” 

She ducked her head, suddenly looking like he felt. “I really want to run. Head to Mexico, you know? But what if we never get our memories back? What are we going to do, settle down as Mr. and Mrs. Asshat?” 

He chuckled. “Let's not.” 

“Ditto.” 

A white-hot pulse blazed through his belly, curling his toes. “I feel so weird.” 

She glanced at him, but dismissed his words with a shrug. “How long 'til he wakes up?” 

Biting back his first five responses, Stiles said, “I don't know.” 

“Look!” 

Panic flooded and he searched the road for signs of pursuit. “What? Where?” 

“In the backseat!” 

“What? Is he awake?” The car veered toward a ditch as he strained to turn around. Only, the masked man wasn't moving. Stiles saw nothing—except red. “Lady! I'm driving here! Potentially drugged and driving a felony charge on wheels! Could you please—”

“Oh my god, shut up.” 

She reached into the backseat and pulled out a purse, which she waggled in his face. Stiles only gritted his teeth and glared at the road. Was there any possibility he'd died and this was some super inventive circle of Hell? The dark-hared demon beside him dug through the purse for a moment and then gasped. 

“It's mine! I'm Allison. Check your pockets!” 

Or, yeah.... That made sense, too. Why hadn't he done that already? 

Digging in his pockets, he pulled out a wallet and a … cell phone. Jesus! If they were being tracked they were done. Or, it was a flip phone. Like a burner. Those were harder to track, right? And didn't have a lock screen. He passed both to the demon named Allison and kept driving. 

She snorted out a laugh. “Your name is ridiculous. I'm sticking with asshat.”

“What is it?” 

“I literally cannot say. Your last name is Stilinski.” 

“Fine. Whatever. Search the phone. Messages. Contacts.”

A few seconds later, she whistled. “Who's the hottie? You're gay, dude. Did you know that?” 

“Ah … okay. That's, um, interesting. I mean, I'm fine with it. I'm not like homophobic or anything.” 

She laughed. “Homophobic? You should see this picture. You're so the bottom.” 

He flinched. “Or not.” 

“No, you should see this guy.” She peered at Stiles skeptically. “You must have money.” 

He very carefully watched the road as a blush crawled across his cheeks. That was a lot of new and surprising information. And, honestly, anything he said out loud would sound wrong. Sure, maybe he liked guys. But who went where and all that stuff? One, it embarrassed him just to think about it. And two, was it really polite conversation? 

She lapsed into silence as she searched the phone. Stiles, mostly, tried to pretend the last two minutes hadn't happened. But Allison wasn't done. 

“Awe. He loves you. And calls you Stiles. Makes sense. Stiles, Stilinski. But the messages really don't. They're weird, actually.” 

Stiles glanced back at the masked man, praying he was somewhere between “not about to die” and “not about to wake up.” He should be tied up. In a different car. They should all be in a different car, and he should be tied up. Damn! What if he had a cell phone? 

“You should call someone, right?” Allison asked. “We've got your hottie. Or your dad.” 

“Dad,” he snapped. Definitely, his dad. Just thinking about the alternative had him twitching in his seat as she hit dial and put the phone on speaker. After several rings, someone picked up. 

“Hey, Stiles.” 

“Dad?” 

“What's up, kiddo?” Stiles heard the shuffle of papers. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah. I just need a favor. Do you have a picture of us together? I want one for my phone.” 

Huh. That was borderline smart. Too bad he'd given it zero thought before the words escaped his mouth. Was he instinctual a smarty pants, or something? 

“For your phone? Ah, yeah … I can do that.” The man sounded cautiously obliging, but not exactly sold. “Everything okay?” 

“Great. Send it over, please. I'll talk to you in a minute.” 

Allison ended the call and flashed him a grin, as if they were suddenly tight as thieves. He offered a cautious smile back, but turned back to the road in the next instant. The phone chimed, and Allison poked at it before announcing, “Looks legit. I think he's your dad.”

“Call him back.” 

His dad answered on the first ring: “Stiles?” 

“Thank you for sending the picture.” 

“What's wrong? Stiles, I know you, kid. Talk to me.” 

With a shrug, he admitted, “I don't know who I am.” 

“What?” 

“I have amnesia, or something. I don't know who you are. Sorry. I don't remember anything.” 

Stiles heard movement, the slam of a door. “Where are you? Are Scott and Allison with you?”

Allison gasped and said, “I'm here. Do you know me?” 

“Allison, too?” The sheriff swore under his breath. “Where's Scott?” 

“We don't know who Scott is!” Allison barked. 

“Your husband. Floppy dark hair? Uneven jaw?” A car engine started. “Where are you? What's happening?” 

“We're....” Allison paused to look for street signs and Stiles shook his head, hard. 

“We're not disclosing our location over the phone.” 

“Are you in danger? Stiles, talk to me. I'm a Sheriff, and I'm your dad. We can handle this, kid. Just talk to me.” 

Before Stiles could say anything, Allison blurted, “There was a gun fight, and a monster, and some ninja is unconscious in our backseat. We maybe stole this car, but probably not because my purse was in it. And Stiles thinks he's been drugged, and my finger is missing!” 

“Jesus, Allison!” 

“All right.” For a long second all they could hear was the sheriff's turning signal. “So, this monster you saw? Hairy, scrunched up face? Fangs?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. 

“Floppy dark hair? Uneven jaw?” 

Stiles huffed out a breath. “We weren't looking at his jaw.” 

“Wait,” Allison whispered. “Are you saying....” 

“That was Scott. Is he okay? Where is he?” 

“Bullshit!” Allison snarled. “I'm not married to a monster!” 

“A werewolf.” The sheriff cleared his throat. “Stiles, you really don't remember anything?” 

“Really, really.” 

“Okay. Are you in California?” 

Stiles really hadn't given their location any thought, and Allison's voice was just as hesitant as she said, “I don't think so. More east, probably.”

“Stiles, listen to me. You have to ditch the hostage and get to Beacon Hills, California. We can protect you here.” 

He glanced back at the unconscious man and grimaced. “He's our only lead.” 

“If you get pulled over, he'll be a one way ticket to jail. Refusal of medical treatment. Abduction across state lines. Assault.” 

“Hey!” Stiles objected. “We didn't assault the guy.” 

“Are you sure about that?” 

Allison sniffed. “Why would we?” 

“Stiles, trust me. Search for an ID and get rid of him. Careful of cameras.” 

He looked to Allison and she nodded. 

“Okay.” 

“Is Scott okay? Can you go back for him?” 

Allison shook her head. 

“Yes, and no.” 

The sheriff sighed. “Get rid of the hunter and start for California. I'm at Derek's. I'll call you back in fifteen.” 

“Derek's your boyfriend,” Allison offered. 

“Right,” Stiles said. “Yeah, okay. We can do that.” 

“And, Stiles? Stay calm. Everyone stay calm. No matter what happens. Werewolves are the good guys, okay?” 

“Yeah ... okay,” Allison mocked. 

The line went dead with the sheriff's whispered, “Damn it.” 

The car fell into silence as Stiles searched for a drop site. Even though the windows were open and he couldn't bear to part with the breeze, he switched on the air conditioner. It was like a damn sauna. He could barely breathe, let alone think. 

“Did your maybe dad just say werewolves are real and I'm married to one?” Allison asked. 

“That's what I heard.” 

“So, the ninjas are our enemies, and the werewolf tried to save us?” 

“I guess so.” 

She huffed a laugh. “He did look bad ass.” 

“Yeah, I peed a little.” 

“Right?” Suddenly turning somber, she asked, “You don't think he cut off my finger, do you?” 

“I think, after we drop off this guy,” he took a deep breath, “you should drive.” 

She dredged up some actual concern and studied him for a second. “They really drugged you?” 

He shrugged, but couldn't help the nervous gulp. “I don't feel right, Allison.”

Five minutes later, Stiles was climbing into the passenger seat, the ninja's ID in his pocket. But, clearly not a ninja, because ninjas didn't ninja with their IDs in their pockets. The dude's name was Cliff. And hopefully Cliff pulled through, because they searched dead bodies for things like fingerprints, hairs, and fibers. For all Stiles' knew, he'd licked the side of the guys face earlier. So … fingers crossed for Cliff's speedy recovery.

And, you know, decorative cameras at that gas station they'd gone all O.K. Corral on. That'd be super. Or maybe that was what Scott was doing, their buddy—the werewolf. If what his dad said was true, they should probably go back for the guy. But … road trip with a werewolf? Thanks, but no thanks. 

Allison drove past three gas stations before stopping to get directions. Stiles kept his eyes closed through most of it—terrified of her driving. When she finally stopped, he stayed in the car, clutching his cell phone like a life line. When she returned, with two sodas and a beaming smile, Stiles asked, “So?” 

“We're in Nevada. About seven and a half hours from Beacon Hills.” 

“You didn't tell them our destination, did you?” 

The look she gave him was full of mocking, but she said only, “No, Stiles. I didn't.” 

He muttered, “Sorry.” 

Now that he wasn't responsible for driving, it was easier to act as miserable as he felt. Because, on a real note, he felt miserable. Forget that he couldn't remember anything. Forget that they were in some violent situation. His body was kicking his ass. All his senses were going haywire, his belly was writhing, and there was some sort of leakage issue … in a very personal area … that he wasn't mentioning to anyone. If he wasn't afraid of being slaughtered in his sickbed, he'd be looking for the nearest hospital. 

The phone rang and he snapped it open instantly. 

“Stiles?” 

“Dad?” 

He heard the slight whine in his own voice and hated himself for it. But this was his dad, right? Right? 

“How you doing, kid?” 

In the background, he heard a woman say, “Going out of his fucking mind, would be my guess.” 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “That.” 

“Yeah … ah, we'll talk about that.” The sheriff cleared his throat. “But first, I need you to call the police and report the location of your assailant. Derek, your … Derek, bought you guys some leniency. He works for the CIA.”

“The CIA?” Allison cackled. “Oh my god are you the bottom!” 

He heard cackling laughter from the strangers with his dad. About dying of embarrassment, he snapped, “Allison! I'm talking to my dad! Could you show some respect?” 

The laughter cut off suddenly, replaced by the mysterious female voice announcing, “Holy shit, he's a pod person.” 

His dad tried to muffle the phone before whispering, “Stiles used to be pretty shy.” 

Stiles heard it anyway, but pretended he hadn't. What was he supposed to say to that? 

“We'll call in the location,” he grumbled. 

“Call right back.” 

Awesome. More mocking from people who knew him better than he knew himself. Sounded super. Yet, after calling in Cliff's location, that's exactly what he did. He kinda felt like a kicked puppy about it, but he called back. 

“Stiles?” 

“Yeah, dad.” 

“Is the phone still on speaker, bud?” 

“Still here!” Allison announced. 

“Hey, Allison. We need to tell Stiles something personal, okay? He's going to take the phone off speaker now.” 

“Or, not,” she said, laughing. “If you think I'm gonna sit here, with my thumb up my ass, while you people pass secret messages, I'd like to invite you to fuck yourselves.”

Stiles heard a whispered, “I can't believe that's Allison.” 

A deep, masculine voice said, “Derek needs to talk to her.” 

“I don't think an alpha command will work.” 

Allison called, “Hello? No response to that?” 

She can't hear them, Stiles realized. He could hear every word they spoke, but Allison couldn't. Because that made sense. 

“Fuck it, give me the phone,” the female voice said. A second later, voice loud enough for Allison to hear, she said, “Hey, guys. It's Erica. I know you don't remember me, but we're buds. Allison, you're kinda hilariously bitchy right now, and I love it.”

“Well, I'm awesome. Obviously.” 

“Yeah, you are. Now, Stiles, honey, I know you feel like shit. You weren't drugged by the hunters. You're okay. You hear me? You're going to be fine.” 

He whispered, “I don't feel okay.” 

A low whine sounded and Stiles' entire body seized. Even as his vision whitened, his body made totally inappropriate demands. Groaning into the phone, he slammed his forehead against the dash, desperate for anything to ground him. It hurt. 

“Derek!” 

Allison said, “Seriously, strange people, he's having some sort of fit. 'Okay' isn't the word I'd use.” 

“Damn it. Stiles? Stiles!” 

His nails dug into his palms. Which, yeah, felt strangely good, but when did they get long enough to do that? Somehow, he snapped out, “What?” 

“You felt like this before the amnesia, okay? The senses thing, and the … everything. You're detoxing from something you need, and we have it here. Just stay calm and try to sleep, okay?” 

He nodded into the phone before catching himself and muttering, “Okay.” 

“Allison, you get your ass here, you hear me? You hold the phone, and if anything weird happens, you call us. Remember, your husband is a werewolf. We're your family. Stiles has gone to war for you. You watch his back, no matter what.” 

“Sure thing, cryptic-warning chick.” 

Why did it sound like.... “Why can I hear you?” 

Allison jibed, “It's this new thing, called a phone.” 

“Just stay calm and get here.” 

In the background, Stiles heard a voice say, “Unless someone attacks you. Then you rip their throats out with your teeth.” 

“Your guns must be in that vehicle, son. You're a good shot.” 

Whatever. Whatever was happening … whatever. “I'm going to sleep now.” 

“Allison, the sheriff will be at the station. Call ahead and he'll come out, or you can go in. Whatever feels right.” 

If there was more after that, Stiles didn't hear. Forehead pressed into the AC vent, he collapsed into sleep. 

***

“Stiles!” 

He startled upright, adrenaline surging. Half awake, his eyes pulsed strangely, but he blinked it away as Allison chuckled to herself. 

“There you are. Slept like the god damn dead. While I drove eight straight hours, I might add.” 

Glancing out the window, he saw a strangely gray world. The dash clock said it was nearing two in the morning, but it didn't look like night. It didn't look like anything he recognized. Stiles pushed the thought away, still groggy with sleep. Or, you know, from the numerous blows to the head he'd obviously taken. That made as much sense as anything. As he shifted upright, something slick and wet trickled over his balls. Which, yeah, was a great big frowny face. 

“Hey, man, you want to know a secret?” He grumbled vaguely, and she continued, “I think I just taught myself to drive. It wasn't pretty. If I'm being totally honest, not a great idea.” 

But they were parked in front of Beacon Hills' Sheriff Department, so Stiles muttered, “Good job.” 

“Hey,” Allison nodded toward the station, “that's your dad.” 

Stiles watched the man hurrying over, a beautiful blond woman and curly-haired guy at his heels. All three ignored Allison and hurried to the passenger's seat. Stiles eyed the door lock as they neared, but failed to make a decision before the door was yanked open. 

“Stiles, are you okay?” the stranger who was his dad asked. 

“Ah—” 

“He needs to stretch his legs!” the blonde screeched. 

“Do you need water? A cheeseburger?” The curly-haired guy thrust both at him. “It's kinda cold now. I'm sorry!” 

“Yeah, I'm fine guys,” Allison muttered. “Really feeling the love.” 

His dad frowned, but left him to see to Allison. The other two, though, were crowding into the SUV. Stiles felt his eyes growing wider and wider, his body shaking with terrified energy. When the woman reached for his seat belt, a strange growl echoed in his throat. Both people leapt back, their heads craned to the side oddly as bizarre whines filled the air. 

“Ah....” He freed himself from the seat belt and managed to lever himself from the vehicle. When neither of them moved or met his gaze, he whispered, “Some water would be great.” 

The curly-haired kid looked like someone had give him a puppy, his eyes shining with proud excitement, as he handed over the water bottle. Taking it gingerly, Stiles nodded his thanks. Another what-the-shit moment. Great. Not like he had enough of those. 

Taking a big gulp of water, he'd only just got the cap back on when the curly-haired guy dove at him. Stiles flinched back, then stiffened when he was captured in a hearty, lingering hug. 

“I'm sorry! I couldn't help it. I'm sorry.” He whimpered pathetically and begged, “Please hug me back.” 

Totally confused and too tired to fight, he obliged the man and hugged him back. Even after several minutes and several pats to the man's back—the universal code for 'enough hugging'—the clinging continued. 

“Okay.” Another pat. “That's enough, I think.” 

The man drew back, his cheeks a bright pink. He muttered, “Sorry.” 

“Yep. My turn.” The woman's words had Stiles' eyes widening, but she was plastered against him an instant later. “We love you, Stilinski. Deal with it.” 

He hugged her back, his head falling to rest against her temple. Strangely enough, something about the embrace soothed him. His palm went to the nape of her neck without conscious thought and she gave a full-body shudder. Stiles couldn't explain it, but he had the strangest urge to sleep just like that—the comforting weight of her body curled around him.

“Come on, kid,” his dad said quietly. “We need to get moving.” 

As he forced himself to release her and take a step back, Allison asked, “Where to?” 

“Oh, right!” The guy jogged to a nearby car and returned holding a framed picture. Hesitantly, he offered it to Allison. “That's us. You're kinda, you're my best friend. See?”

Stiles thought about moving closer and getting a better look at the picture. Instead, he leaned against the SUV and focused on breathing. Allison, though, studied the picture for long minutes before nodding. 

“That's Scott?” she asked. 

“Yeah, the three of us.” He fidgeted before added, “We're close.” 

“Why are you showing this to me?” 

The sheriff cleared his throat and said, “I need you to go with Isaac. He'll take you back to the pack. Ah, of your friends. The pack of your friends.” He grimaced, but rushed on, “Stiles is coming with Erica and me. He needs....” 

“The antidote,” Erica offered. 

The sheriff grimaced again. “Yeah. The antidote.” 

Allison asked, “Stiles?” 

What? Oh, right. Nothing but attitude since they met, but force the dopey guy to make the big decisions. Great idea. Honestly … he didn't have this. 

“Seems okay?” He shrugged at her. “You've got the keys. Run, if you want. I don't think I have a choice.”

Isaac pressed closer to Allison, all innocence and earnestness, and vowed, “I won't let anything happen to you. I swear.” 

Finally, she shrugged and said, “Lead the way.” 

After a round of goodbyes and more assurances, Stiles found himself back in the SUV. His dad was driving, and Erica was in the backseat. They'd been driving five minutes—Stiles happily staring out the window—before Erica spoke. 

“Before I start, you should know, this really isn't my wheelhouse. The breaking bad news thing, given normal circumstances, would not be my job. Hell, Boyd would have done it better. He, like, would not come, though. Would not. I tried everything.” 

Stiles heard her. Heard the words. He couldn't make himself lift his head and reply. 

“Go on,” the sheriff urged. 

“Okay! Here goes! You know how Scott's a werewolf? Turns out, so are you.” When he still didn't move, she added, “Stiles, you are a werewolf.” 

Stiles muttered, “It's not dark outside.” 

“Right? Exactly. All your senses are enhanced. Because you're a werewolf.” 

“Okay.” 

A weird silence fell and he forced himself to sit upright. They wanted more, obviously. So, he mimicked back, “I'm a werewolf. Thank you for telling me.” 

“All right … moving on, I guess. Maybe I am good at this.” She chuckled to herself and blurted, “So, you're in heat. Like, sexual heat? Like cats, you know? But we're bringing you to Derek, your mate. As soon as you guys bang one out, you'll feel way better.” 

He blinked. Blinked again. A spark of something lit in his stomach, traveled up his chest, into his head, and popped. Blinking again, he slowly turned in his seat to look at the woman. When he opened his mouth, a single word erupted: “What?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off: I truly appreciate all the encouragement and well wishes. I'm sorry it took so long! Second: Once again, instead of ending this thing, I changed the genre and kept going. Stupid plot got in the way of the smut, so I just rewound time. I'm pretty much this story's god. Mwah ha ha. So ... I hope everyone enjoys. :D


	21. New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 25 pages, so make sure you have a minute. Sorry for the delay. I rewrote this chapter several times. I'm pretty fond of this new, amnesiac Stiles now. I hope you guys like him, and welcome to the cracky romance portion of the ride. :D

Before she could hope to respond, Stiles shook his head—as if he might jar the words loose—and demanded, “What did you say?”

“Don't believe me?” She pulled a large zip-lock bag out of her purse and threw it at him. “Smell that.” 

With a roll of his eyes, he jerked open the bag. And moaned in bliss. Clutching the bag to his chest, Stiles relaxed back into his seat and hummed. 

“See? That's Derek's scent. Mellows you right out, huh?” 

It did. Each deep inhale roused his dazed brain cells. Plus? It was the best thing in the universe. If he could eat it, he would. If he could spin yarn composed of Derek's scent, he'd knit a blanket and wear it around his neck like a cape. Forever. 

He turned to gape at Erica. “Why would anyone smell like this? This is a class A narcotic. And, one more time, I'm a werewolf?” 

“You're a werewolf, and you're smelling your mate. That's pheromones and … magic.”

As his thoughts got clearer, he let the idea circle. Not the stupid parts, he ignored those. But! He was a werewolf! A total bad ass with no memories. Like Jason Bourne! No! Like Wolverine! 

“Oh my god, are we X-Men? I call Wolverine!” 

The sheriff chuckled. “You slept on Wolverine sheets until you could drive.”

“Because Wolverine is awesome. I love him.” 

“I remember. I washed those sheets.” Even as the words were working their way into Stiles' mind, his dad added, “When I threw them away, you cried.”

Erica crowed. “Yes! Thank you.” 

“Whatever,” Stiles snapped. “Wolverine is awesome. And now I'm Wolverine. I don't actually remember my life goals, but I'm pretty positive that was one of them.”

“Stiles,” Erica said, “you're not Wolverine.” 

Tsch. Hater. “I'm obviously Wolverine.” 

“One, Wolverine is fictional. Two, he isn't a werewolf. Three, as thick as your head is, it won't stop a bullet.” He could hear her teeth grinding as she hammered home, “You're not fucking Wolverine.”

“Jeez. Fine.” His pout turned to a grin. “But I am a bad ass, right?” 

After a long-suffering sigh, Erica admitted, “You're pretty bad ass.” 

Right? Stiles stared out the window, trying to make his sight work even better. Something weird pulsed behind his eyes. But when he jerked the visor down, his image in the mirror looked normal. So, Stiles squinted and strained. Tried to visualize. To be the werewolf. 

“Stiles! Focus, kid.” The sheriff shook his head. The gesture contained such long-suffering, fatherly exasperation that Stiles almost had no choice but to believe everything he said. Which was … not great. “Feeling better? It's because you smell Derek.” 

“Right.” What a buzz kill. Straining, he pulled the clues together. “So, you're saying, my body was going into hysterics because I couldn't smell this dude?”

“Your mate.” 

A mate? He wasn't sure Stan Lee would approve. “So, he's my fatal flaw? My humanity and vulnerability personified? Does he need rescuing constantly?” 

Erica grinned, but the speculative gleam in her eyes was frightening. “Derek is an alpha werewolf. We rescue Allison. Point is, you're stronger together. Your body is driving you to find Derek. Because you're about to need him.” She made the word 'need' sound pornographic, but still waggled her eyebrows and added, “If you know what I mean.” 

The sheriff grumbled, “We all know what you mean.”

She snorted in reply. “What? Your son's a mated werewolf in heat. He needs to know this shit. We've got a fifteen minute drive, and I'm prepping my boy.” She turned to Stiles with a flick of her hair. “What do you know?” 

Fifteen minutes? He gazed at Erica, half tempted to spend the time arguing such a ridiculous claim. Sure, maybe he was a werewolf. All his senses were heightened. His friend Scott had a furry face. So, yeah, werewolf was a good guess. But mated? He was just dazed and horny … and enraptured with this guy's scent … why did that sound like every mating fanfiction he'd ever read? And, sure, he couldn't actually remember reading them, but he did remember some decidedly NC-17 scenes between Wolverine and Gambit that, almost for sure, were not canon. And he remembered words like those. Canon, dub-con, crack … sex pollen, fuck or die.... 

Stiles dragged a hand across his face and said, “Tell me everything.” 

Momentarily overwhelmed, he brought the bag to his face for another deep inhale. It chased away the haze clinging to his thoughts. Also happened to make his toes curl. But, you know, an improvement. 

“You're Stiles Stilinski. Up until a week ago, you worked for the FBI. Behavioral Analyst, I think.” 

FBI? Hell yeah! Back to being a bad ass! 

“Our pack was implicated, I guess you'd say, in a bunch of ritual deaths. You were supposed to go undercover, posing as Derek's mate and find the killer. Only, they took scent samples from everyone who applied for the job. Derek smelled you, his true mate, and here we are.” 

Stiles was almost sorry he didn't have a notebook and a pen. All the same, he waved his finger in the air before asking, “Just so we're on the same page, how would you define 'mate?'”

She laughed. He didn't know why. 

“Okay, first, mates are super rare. Mostly found in born wolves with old blood, but even then it's a big deal. Like fate, or magic. And it happens a lot to alphas, especially when there's trouble. It's like two people are supposed to be together, for the pack, so the universe reaches out and binds them.” 

“The universe?” 

“Or Mother Wolf. Or some witch three thousand years ago. Who knows. You've only been mated a few weeks, man. And there were serial killers. And Allison's kidnapping. And your blood trail of victory. Oh, and the fire. Point is, I'm going off your notes, and you're still working on it.” 

“Actually, I think your point was, Derek needed help, Mother Wolf picked me to do it, and now I'm a werewolf addicted to Derek's scent.”

Which … wasn't half of that epically awesome? A werewolf needed help stopping serial killers, and a god-like power chose him for the task? That was his freaking origin story! Chosen by a mystical force to save the world? Top five! Easy! 

Erica—apparently equally excited—flashed him two thumbs up. But then said, “And about to get unbelievably horny.” 

Which, right. There was that. Still. He scoffed in annoyance. Erica punched him in the shoulder—hard. 

“Dude, you were worried about this. The real you dreams about banging Derek, and you were worried. You get me? I've been softening the blow with inappropriate humor, but this is no joke. Pay the fuck attention.” 

Yeah, god, okay. Couldn't give him a minute to revel in the awesome? But, no. A favorite fanfiction trope was now his life. Fuck or die. He'd truly stumbled into some cracky, sex pollen nonsense. Which was ridiculous, but the ziplocked shirt in his hands had magical properties and he felt like he was rolling on E. So.... 

Right? 

Sighing, he asked, “What happens when a mate goes into heat?” 

“Basically, it's this week-long bonding ritual. It targets female mates, or homosexual bottoms. Which is you, for the record. You'll start off extra affectionate, then get needy. Then, insatiable. That's your word, 'insatiable.' You know what that means, right?” 

Fuck or die. He got it. But, “Can I do anything to make it better?” 

“Yeah, genius. Let Derek fuck you, early and often. You play chicken with this, you'll end up its bitch. I'm not exaggerating. If you separate from Derek, you will both die. Which means I'll have to put on my sensible shoes, and hunt your ass down.” 

Fuck or die. Stiles looked to his father, the man's gaze carefully focused on the road. “You agree with her? Your advice, to your son, is 'go, Stiles, bang one out with a werewolf you've never met?” 

He groaned. “Look. Derek asked me to find this place a few days ago, for a vacation, he said. I didn't hear anything about this other stuff.” His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Which I appreciate. But Derek is your husband and your mate. You should do what he says. I trust him.” 

Et tu Sheriff? Well … fuck or die, across the board. Great. “Anything else?” 

“Yeah,” his dad said. “Someone did this to you. Probably hunters. Listen son, they've been a real pain in the ass.” 

“They cut off Allison's finger. You saw that, right?” Erica snarled. “I'm over her being human.”

“They knocked me unconscious and tied me to a chair,” the sheriff said. 

“Shot Allison's dad! And, you know, Danny and Lydia....” 

Stiles said, “I don't know. Supernatural amnesia, remember?” 

Erica blinked, and Stiles saw a world of emotion on her face. “That's a whole other story. Point is, they captured you, tried to kill you a bunch of times, and threatened to kill Allison and Scott. We kicked their ass and killed the evil queen. But there are lot of hunters, and most of them want us dead.” 

“So, if you're attacked? Fight back. No hesitation,” the sheriff said. “Werewolves have rights, and the law will protect you. If you have to, kill them all.” 

Ah … obviously. Sure, it looked like the source of his power was this dude Derek's dick, but he was still Wolverine. And they thought, what? He finally got super powers and he was going out in act one, like a chump? Hell no. 

Pressing his steepled fingertips to his lips—only a little like a super villain—he said, “Tell me about my powers.” 

Obvious pride in his voice, the sheriff said, “You're a hell of a shot.” 

“You're fast and strong,” Erica gloated, then frowned. “But we're all fast and strong. You're … you figure stuff out.”

“You're smart,” the sheriff said, shaking his head. “Very smart. Motivated and driven. And you're quick on your feet. Even when I had you caught, dead to rights, you never went down without a fight. You always kept spinning.” 

“How fucked up is that?” Erica laughed. “Your power is getting wailed on and never stopping. Congratulations.” 

Not exactly an adamantium skeleton. But!

“Like Daredevil! So, I have a sort of Daredevil meets Wolverine vibe?” 

“You are not Wolverine.” Erica groaned. “Fine. We're doing this. Wolverine is aloof and gruff, but crazy loyal. If anyone's Wolverine, it's Derek.”

So, his mate dude, who he was going to … visit, was Wolverine? Mmh. 

“So, I'm Daredevil?” 

“I didn't watch that movie!”

“Oh my God, don't!” 

“Stiles!” 

He thrust a hand toward his dad. “I have a point, Your Honor.” Turning back to Erica, he demanded, “If I'm not Wolverine, who am I?” 

“You're a huge geek, that's who you are. You're lucky I talk to you.” 

“Don't play coy, Erica. You knew all about Wolverine.” 

With a fabulous roll of her eyes, she said, “Cyclopes, I guess. Scott.” 

He clutched his chest. “Scott?” 

“What? Everyone likes Scott.” 

“He's vanilla!” Huffing out a breath, he started shaking his head and kept shaking it. “I can't speak for the last dude who had this body, but I am not Scott.” 

“Hey! You solve problems. Scott's smart.”

“Then make me Beast! Right, not a sex symbol, but he's brilliant. Scott's middle of the road.”

And, as Erica lunged forward, fire in her eyes, Stiles realized … she might like Scott. 

“You both unite people and make decisions. He has laser-gun eyes, and you shoot shit. Scott's my answer!” 

“So, if the hunters attack,” the sheriff said, “shoot them.” 

“Nice segue, Dad.” 

Stiles froze when he heard the word. Dad. The moment lulled and turned awkward, so he blurted, “Who needs guns? My super power is creative problem solving.” 

“Yeah, smart ass. Problem solve a weapon into your hands, and creatively plunge it into their chests.” Erica slapped his shoulder, then cooed and petted it. “Or use your fangs and teeth, spazz.” 

He nodded. Fine. Okay. Moving on. He was not Wolverine. But he was a tenacious, gun-totting werewolf. Race buffs: extraordinary speed and strength. Offense buffs: fangs and claws. So, that was what? +100 attack? +50 crit? 

“Do I heal?” 

Erica sighed. “Don't get shot in the head.” 

“But otherwise?” 

Looking pained, she glanced at the sheriff and said, “You've been shot like seven times.”

His father groaned. 

“Awesome!” Stiles grinned. “That's plus fifty defense. At least!”

Erica sighed, the sound tinged with exasperation. “What?” 

“He's, ah,” the sheriff scratched his head, “before we got him in the right classes, he was immersed in this online world. Not Dungeons and Dragons, he said that a lot, but basically Dungeons and—”

“I can speak for myself,” Stiles cut in. “I'm compiling the race characteristics of werewolves. In this conversation, that's weird? Really?”

Erica shrugged. “Do what you do, man.” 

“Exactly. Now, you're a werewolf, right? Let's see the fangs.” 

Erica snarled with her human face. Fangs filled her mouth. Her eyes turned amber. Ridges creased her nose and forehead. The fangs were decent. Only good for close-quarter combat. And he used guns? That made no sense. Sure, bring a gun, but his primary weapon should be knives. Wait. 

He was a new werewolf! As a human, he was totally a ranged character. Now he was a rogue, high on agility. Hell, he could pass for a tank. But carrying around a broadsword, in this day and age? Hella awkward. 

Eric snapped at him, obvious annoyed his mind could wander while her fangs gleamed. She demanded, “You believe me?” 

Shrugging, he said, “I … yeah, I guess. I believe you.” 

“You're going to fuck Derek?” 

Or die? Those were his options? Fuck or die? 

“I mean … yeah. Probably.” 

“Great. We're here.” 

Exactly on cue, his father hit the turning signal. When they started up the long driveway, Stiles couldn't see the house. Which, come to think of it, he hadn't seen another house in a while. He was just rousing himself to concern when an unassuming ranch home came into view, complete with built-on garage and painted shutters. 

“It's the vacation house of a work friend,” the sheriff said. “No one will look for you here.”

Super comforting. 

“Here.” 

Erica tossed him a tightly folded piece of paper. Casting her a puzzled look, he unfolded and read it: “Your ass produces lubrication when you get turned on. It's a mate thing. You won't get pregnant. Don't freak out.” 

Seriously? He cast a guilty look toward his dad and refolded the note. It was one hundred percent horrible, but, sadly, also a welcome explanation. Because that was his life right now. Shaking his head, Stiles was hiding the note away when he saw the door open. A man stood there, silhouetted in light. He looked … nifty. Lean and strong, and familiar. Just looking at him, Stiles felt something strange stir in his belly. 

Then he started walking. Which was even better. The slow roll of his body, the shift and flex of his muscles … Stiles was captivated. Ensnared. Until the man looked across the distance and met his gaze. Then Stiles realized he was still clutching Derek's shirt to his chest like a stuffed animal. Nope! Bending, he shoved it beneath the seat. When he popped back up, the man was standing outside his window—a polite three paces away.

He could hear Derek's heartbeat. Feel it. 

And close up? The guy's face? Gorgeous bone structure and some superb manscaping. It was perfect. Black stubble and thick, rugged eyebrows. Still-damp, black hair just long enough to sink his fingers into. And that body … Stiles almost yelled, “Mine!” Like he was calling shotgun, or the last piece of pizza. Because Derek … all of that, was his? Sold. He didn't need to see door number two. He'd take his prize and go, thank you. 

He realized the engine was off. They'd been parked for some time, and the … alpha werewolf—score!—had been standing outside his window. Waiting. As Stiles sexually assaulted the man with his eyes. So.... 

He escaped his seat belt and opened the door. Then froze, one foot on the ground, as Derek's scent hit him. Oh ... holy yes please. Forget the cape. Standing next to Derek, Stiles could bathe in the scent. Breathe it like air. 

When had Derek captured his gaze again? Jerking away, Stiles climbed out of the vehicle gracelessly. Then he stood there, avoiding Derek's gaze, but shamelessly devouring every other inch of his body. The draw was more than dark mystique and rippling muscles. The damn henley shirt clinging to him like sin. It was the striking, undeniable knowledge that this man was important. Singular. And Stiles' sudden, all-consuming desperation to possess him. 

Erica and his dad left the SUV. Stiles didn't look away. He'd be more embarrassed, but he could feel Derek's attention like a caress, every inch of his body sparking to life. Feeling bared and confused, he tried to mold his expression into a blank nothing—unsuccessfully.

Derek smiled. “Hey, Stiles.” 

The words blazed through him. Almost knocked him off his feet. It was unnatural and glorious. Overwhelming. Spurred into action and desperate to escape, he found himself circling Derek's body. Yes. Better. Great shoulder blades. And a nice curve at the small of his back. Strong legs. A good runner, he'd bet. A worthy hunter. 

“Thanks, guys,” Derek said, and tossed some keys to the sheriff. “Will you drop Erica at home?” 

“Of course. Take care of my boy.” The words tugged at Stiles' consciousness. He should look up, acknowledge his father. He didn't. “See you later, kid. I'm just a phone call away.” 

He nodded. Then, after a long pause, whispered, “Thanks, Dad. Bye, Erica.” 

“Later, Stiles. Enjoy the honeymoon.” 

Derek smirked. “Goodbye, Erica.” 

She laughed, and then they were retreating. Derek stared after them until the headlights disappeared. Likely waiting for Stiles to finish his leisurely survey of the man's muscular thighs and trim hips. 

So. At what point did rubbing his face up and down Derek's body become socially acceptable? Another five minutes, right? That'd be polite. 

“Come inside, Stiles.”

Making no move to answer, but smirking to himself, Stiles trailed after the man. Or, serpentined after him. He couldn't stop himself from swiveling this way and that, cataloging Derek from every angle. And, with every step, his nostrils flared, chasing the exquisite scent. 

This man was his boyfriend? Mother Wolf, or whatever, needed a mate for ... that—Stiles marveled at the walking wet dream before him—for Derek, the universe needed an equal, and it chose him? That.… Or, wait … Mother Wolf had a serial killer problem, and his dad was sheriff. What if it was all happenstance? What if there was nothing special about him at all? Or … what if, every decision he'd ever made was a subconscious, or guided, step toward becoming the person he needed to be? For this. For Derek. To be a werewolf. 

A slow grin crept across his face. 

When the man paused, just inside the house, to kick off his shoes, Stiles allowed himself a step closer. The heat radiating off Derek's body felt like midsummer sunshine. 

Then Derek was gone and Stiles ambled forward, fighting back alarm as the distance between them grew. He forced himself to stop. To be still. There was a living room off to the right, and a big kitchen to the left. A kitchen and a hallway. A hallway that led, he suspected, to a bed. 

Losing track of the man entirely, Stiles' mind conjured a visual collage of Derek—on a bed. Dressed. Naked. Flashing his bedroom eyes. Arching in pleasure. 

“Bathroom's the first door on the right. You can take a minute. Grab a shower.”

He blinked Derek into existence and found the man staring at him. Or more specifically, intensely staring at Stiles' achingly obvious erection. With a little shuffle landing somewhere between a shrug and a curtsy, he fled for the bathroom. Perfect. 

Yet, once inside, he froze with his hand wrapped around the doorknob. It wasn't right. He shouldn't be out there, with Derek. Then slowly—very slowly—he turned, his nose lifting, searching for the scent. Steam still clung to the air, carrying traces of Derek. But draped over the towel rack, all casual like, was a black tee shirt.

It wasn't clean. The shirt in the ziplock bag had been folded and crisp. Derek had recently showered. But the black tee shirt was filthy and saturated. 

Edging closer, only a step … no, two …. he leaned forward as far as he could and sniffed. An instant later, he was on his knees, shuffling forward. Soft fabric brushed his forehead. Oh. Hell yeah.

Snatching at the shirt, Stiles flopped onto his back and pressed the material to his face. And, yeah, he couldn't breathe, but who needed air? Before, the diluted scent was almost overpowered by the pheromones. Now, he smelled wet grass and damp earth. The spark of ozone after a storm. Something dark, and tempting, and raw was tempered with sweet traces of vanilla and cinnamon. Forget breathing air. He could barely stop himself from suckling on the fabric like a toddler clutching a blanky. 

Unable to deny the desperate need, Stiles protected the shirt with his arms and rolled to his belly. Gasping—another lungful of scent sinking deep—his hips twitched as the floor came into contact with his hard, aching erection. 

Moaning happily, he snuggled into the floor and went limp. Yes. This. Maybe … just a little nap? 

“Stiles, take off your clothes.” 

Derek's words were perfectly audible. Which made Stiles regret his little gasp of surprise. 

“Get in the shower.” 

He was twisting on the hot water even as he considered refusing. And then he was naked and stepping inside. The spray of water against his skin was a sweet torment. It pelted, and pebbled, and slid down his body, making him keenly aware of every inch. Making him achingly aware of his desperately hard dick. 

“Feel good?” 

Stiles gasped. “Shh.” 

He heard Derek's soft chuckle, but the moment stretched into silence. At a complete loss, Stiles reached for the shampoo. When, a minute later, he washed the conditioner out, he should have been making plans. At the very least, he should have been spinning himself a rousing motivational speech. Instead, he was angsting over his more immediate problem. 

Precome was already leaking from his dick. His ass felt slick and hypersensitive. How was he meant to get clean when he was terrified to touch himself? 

The click of the body-wash cap sent heat flaming to his cheeks. As he ran a soapy hand across his chest, he imagined Derek listening to each sound. Imaged Derek painting a picture from the spray of water and the slide of skin on skin. Imaged his own heartbeat betraying him with each pulse and stutter. 

Gathering his courage, he slid a hand across his belly. His chest heaved, the gasp involuntary and loud. Reeling, he parted his lips. To say … something. To beg for mercy, or forgiveness. To beg Derek closer. But his teeth trapped the words. 

“Stiles, it's okay, baby. Take the edge off. Let go.” 

He scoffed. Oh, hell no. Madness. 

“I did. Right where you're standing. Not fifteen minutes ago, I had my hand wrapped around my cock, your name on my lips as I came all over the wall you're looking at.” 

No! Not fair. He literally saw stars. Vicious, overwhelming pleasure surged, but he clung to his dignity with clenched teeth and curled fists. Oh, bad! Derek was bad. 

The wolf laughed. And not a bark of laughter, either. A good belly laugh that ended with a happy little chuckle edged in release. 

“You're so stubborn. I love you. Your choice, baby. Get off now, and buy us a minute to say hello, or leave the shower desperately turned on. I'll have you coming, untouched, inside five minutes.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes. He might as well crawl into bed and let Derek ravish him now. It was a done deal. Plus, his weak knees and glowing, lethargic desire made a bed sound divine. 

“Yes?” When another long moment stretched, Derek hummed. “Will you talk to me, Stiles?” 

And say what? Anxiety bubbled as his mind spun. 

“If I tell you to rest your right hand on your lower stomach, will you?” 

Oh.... Derek was bad. Derek was a wolf and Stiles was in trouble. If he had any hope of surviving, he'd better be a whole lot saucier than Daredevil. 

“Stiles.” 

Right. His hand went to his lower stomach. Because he was 'banging one out' with a werewolf he'd just met, as instructed by his father. A weird little giggle escaped. 

“Focus on your body. On your hand. I bet you're confused. The two desires are blending together. Robbing you of thought. I bet the splay of your fingers has your cock hard and leaking. But you recognize that desire, the ache in your balls. What you don't recognize is your need for me, for your mate. You know where you ache for your mate. Don't you?” 

God, he knew. He ached with emptiness. 

“You want to know who you are? Ask your body. Give it what it wants, and pretend it's my touch. Because that's what you really want. And what I really want, is your pleasure.” 

Stiles was still gasping when Derek growled, “Hearing you moan might kill me. I'll unpack the car.” 

Stiles listened to Derek's retreat, his fingertips gliding downward to the rhythm of the wolf's footsteps. As the touch swept close to his ass, his fingers grew slick and slippery. What had seemed wrong and alarming suddenly felt blissful. His fingers glanced his hole. Circled it. His entire body shuddered. 

This is where Derek wanted to touch him? His fingertip slipped in and his eyes slammed closed. Compelled to continue, he plunged the finger deeper. Moaned. Repeated the motion. When he added a second finger, his dick twitched and spurted precome. 

Frantic, he jerked his fingers free and wrapped them around his dick. The first stroke was rough and a little painful. The second was slick and blissful. Pleasure slammed into his belly, and, with another few strokes, he was coming with a groan. So quick it felt like regret even as his body spasmed and sought repose. His ass clenched, unsated pleasure spiking. 

Numbly, he scrubbed his body clean, cut off the water, and climbed from the shower. When his shaking fingers opened the cabinet, he found not only a towel, but a pile of his clothing. He could barely force the towel around his waist before reaching for Derek's shirt. 

Stiles missed him already. Coming without the enveloping pleasure of his scent had been painful. Incomplete and sad. But a deep inhale of the shirt later, he was blushing and rubbing a hand over his face. Because, yep. That happened. 

Curious, he lifted the pile of neatly folded clothes to his nose. They smelled like him, like Stiles, but like Derek, too. Setting the pile atop the counter, he picked up the bluejeans. 

A pair of green boxers toppled to the floor. 

Stiles scrambled, his cheeks on fire. Derek had touched his underwear. Had picked out a pair of underwear for him to wear … with the intention of seeing them again? Of taking them off? 

Was it too late to be nervous? 

After another hit of Derek's scent, he had his boxers and bluejeans on in record time. When Derek shut the door and walked toward the kitchen, Stiles found himself stumbling down the hallway, still pulling the shirt over his head. 

The instant he saw Derek, his dick twitched and his ass … throbbed. Which sounded weird bordering on icky, but felt extremely nice. So extremely nice he almost chickened out and ran. But then he was staring at Derek, smelling Derek, and he forgot to care. Could only think, 'Mine.' 

The man crossed to the kitchen table and lifted an apple. As Stiles stared, he tossed it up, into the air. It seemed to return to Derek's hand as if drawn there—as if it yearned to be there. Stiles rubbed his palms against his thighs, feeling very much like an apple. 

“Here.” 

Derek tossed it to him. But, to Stiles, the moment was an eternity. A frame-by-frame capture of every shift and flex of Derek's gorgeous, too-graceful body. Snatched the apple from the air, Stiles clutched it to his chest. Knowing his fingers curled around the trace heat left by Derek's touch was amazing. Delicious.

“Eat it, please.”

When he brought the apple to his mouth, it felt like more. Like he was on his knees, eating chunks of apple from Derek's palm. Even as his body pulsed in appreciation, Stiles jerked it away with a hard shake of his head. No, no. Not that easy. He flashed his eyes at Derek as he ducked his chin, smirking. 

The man looked far too aware, but said only, “You have to eat.” 

Stiles set the apple on the table. 

Derek smiled. “Would you like to sit?” 

Stiles lowered himself into the chair obligingly, then regretted the decision almost immediately. Derek crossed behind him on the way to the sink, the heat from his body trailing against Stiles' back like a caress. He returned with two glasses of water, placed one before Stiles, and sat across from him. 

Stiles' confidence plummeted. He couldn't breathe anything except Derek's scent. And the table was tiny. Like two chairs separated by a two-by-four. Rubbing a hand over his face, Stiles tucked his feet behind the chair, determined that their legs should never meet. 

Derek pulled a notebook to him and flipped it open. 

“What do you remember?” 

A direct question. And Derek was waiting, pen literally poised. He knew a lot, actually. He knew his geography and his table of elements. He knew X-Men, and serial killers. 

“Speak, Stiles. You have to talk now.” 

He hadn't made the conscious decision not to talk. Up until now, he'd mostly been dumbstruck and strangely predatory. But, a little of Stiles' smirk returned as he studied Derek. The man looked revved up. His grip on the pen was too tight, and his expression was pinched. It was strangely satisfying. Anyway, what was he supposed to say? He didn't even know what superhero he was. So, really, did he have to talk? 

He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. 

“Fine, brat.” Derek slapped his hand down on the table. “You know this is a table?” 

Stiles rolled his eyes. 

“Who's Bruce Wayne?” 

He grinned. 

“Do you know who the president is?” 

Derek listed off past presidents, and Stiles nodded at the right name. The wolf hummed. The sound should have roused Stiles' curiosity. Instead, he found himself trembling.

“He was only elected a year ago.” Derek leaned closer. “But you remember nothing of werewolves?” 

That was a great big huff of displeasure. 

“We've been common knowledge for over five years.”

Stiles glanced up. He'd noticed that. Werewolves had rights, his father said. But five years? Why did he remember other, more current information? 

He quirked an eyebrow. 

Derek slid the notebook and pen across the table. “You want to take notes? You're better at it.” 

For a second, he remained stiff and still. It was an obvious ploy. But he actually did want to take notes. And he also wanted to touch that pen. So, he grabbed the notebook and lifted the pen to his nose. 

After he stopped shivering with delight, Stiles wrote: “What can't I remember?” 

When Derek leaned closer to read, Stiles turned the notebook so he could see.

“Me.” 

Licking his lips, Stiles put Derek's name on top of the list. 

He wrote, “Me.” And then, “Werewolves.” 

“Scott saw what happened. A witch was casting a spell on Allison. You got in the way trying to protect her.” 

He glanced up at Derek, and immediately wished he hadn't. The man looked so familiar, and just a little wicked. Stiles found his gaze tracking the line of his throat. The shape of his chest. He traced patterns into his own hand as he stared, hungry to touch. 

After long seconds, Derek said, “So we know the spell was meant for Allison.” 

Sighing, he dropped his head. When the notes in front of him danced together, he set the pen down and pushed the notebook away. 

“Your body is telling you to touch me.” Derek slid his hand across the table. He left it sitting there, palm down—waiting. “You'll feel better.” 

He leaned away. It wasn't a conscious decision, just his gut reaction. Sure, the soft bathe of sunlight was glorious. Touching the sun was still a shit idea. And so was touching Derek. Stiles would, for sure, lose. 

Derek didn't move. Only said, “It's inevitable, Stiles.” 

Jumping to his feet, he paced away. It didn't feel half as good as he'd hoped, but Derek's waiting hand made him desperate to escape. The man was a wolf. 

“That's your 'stop being insufferably sexy and let me think' pace. You were a virgin when we met. I've seen that pace before.” He had the gall to grin … and look adorable. “You'll be happy to know, I plan to seduce you. You'll need fucked the day after tomorrow, so that's my deadline. I hope you're seduced by then.” 

Feeling his cock stir, Stiles groaned, frustrated to madness. 

“You know what you say? When I fluster you?” The man grinned, the flash of his white teeth matching the mischief in his eyes. “'Derek, you can't just say things like that.' And can you guess my reply?” 

Stiles shook his head. 

“What's wrong, Stiles?” Derek surged to his feet and advanced a step, grinning all the while. “Am I turning you on?” 

Fierce want seized him, but Stiles slid away. He circled the man until the table stood between them. Derek only cocked his head to the side and waited, seemingly pleased and patient. When the moment stretched and Stiles became desperate for any distraction, he snatched up the apple and viciously sank his teeth in. 

An instant later, he was moaning. It tasted fresh and sweet, its juices clinging to his lips. Forgetting himself, he licked it away with a happy, beaming smile. 

A dark, gravelly sound rumbled from Derek's throat. When Stiles looked, the man was licking his own lips. Dragging his teeth against that sinfully-lush lower lip. Even as the sight sizzled through Stiles like electricity, Derek's eyelashes fluttered. 

“You don't remember, but I've seen that panicked lust on your face before. I've had you, Stiles, innocent and trembling.” Derek thrummed his fingers against his thighs, drawing Stiles' attention. Keeping it. “I think you're innocent again. I know you're trembling.” 

The powerful surge of lust was too heavy. Threatening. Rolling his shoulders, Stiles widened his jaws and felt the thrust of fangs. Meeting Derek's gaze, he sank them into the apple with a growl. 

“Really?” Derek grinned and strolled forward. Somehow, he looked bigger. Broader at the shoulders. “You think so?” 

Stiles flashed a toothy grin and started moving. Leaving the table behind, he circled Derek. Tore another chunk from the apple. 

“I know that body better than you do.” Derek took a step toward him, but Stiles slid away. Another snap of his fangs. “I'll give you what you wouldn't know to take.” 

Stiles changed directions. Derek moved with him—taking up his rhythm. 

“Talk to me, Stiles. Please, baby. Say anything.” 

He grinned. Taking a final savage bite, he tossed the core over his shoulder, into the sink. Stiles rubbed his hands together and took a step forward. Then another. 

“Yeah, Derek. I think so.” He looked the man up and down, somehow pleased when Derek only stood his ground, a soft smile curling his sinful lips. “I think you'll let me do whatever I want.” 

Derek threw his arms wide, like an invitation. But the tilt of his chin and quirk of his eyebrow screamed of predatory arrogance. A dare. A trap. “What do you think you want?”

A hailstorm of conflicting impulses and desires shook his footing. Sliding away from it, he circled behind Derek. Slow and steady, step by step, as they watched each other, Stiles slid out of Derek's sight and had unfettered access to the man's back. His neck. 

Excited glee sparking through him, Stiles slinked forward. 

“You're challenging me. You think you're doing it because you want control, but you aren't. You don't.” 

Derek turned around, and Stiles—having so gleefully crept forward—was caught, too close. It was entirely possible he was imagining it, but Derek smelled, literally, five to seven times more devastatingly erotic and delicious. Even sexier than the sweat-drenched black shirt. He gasped, trying to steady himself, but then he was swimming in the scent. And just as he feared his knees would buckle, Derek surged forward. 

Stiles backed away, helpless to escape, as the wolf before him stalked ever closer. His shoulder blades hit the wall, and he shuddered with pleasure. 

“What you want, is to be bested. To snap and snarl until you're forced to your belly and pinned beneath my weight. You want to be taken. To feel my strength and know it's yours. That you'll be protected when you're shattered and helpless. ” 

Derek looked into his eyes, and Stiles could only wait. The jumble of his reactions left him no path, no words. Then Derek was smirking. 

“But I've got time. You want my neck, take it.” 

Derek ducked his head closer, capturing Stiles' scent with a deep inhale, and stepped back. An instant later, the wolf slid against the wall, his cheek pressed to the floral wallpaper. Then, slowly, he canted his chin into the air, turning his neck into one long line of pure temptation. 

For long seconds, Stiles could only gape. He was hopelessly outclassed. He got that, and part of him believed every word Derek said. Because wasn't the wolf topping the hell out of this submission? And weren't Stiles' knees weak? But, whatever. This man … this Greek statue, who smelled like lightning and earth and home, who had Stiles' skin alive and aching, and his mouth watering for a taste … was begging for Stiles' touch. 

“Take off your shirt.” As a tremor rumbled through his body, Stiles added, “Please.” 

Derek did. No hesitation, his fingers curled into the henley and pulled it, slowly, free. As each inch of his taut, muscled skin came into view, Stiles moved closer. The tattoo shook him, and then there were shoulders and biceps … Derek's neck. 

Which must be a werewolf thing, because Stiles couldn't look away. 

He drifted closer, until his fingertips hovered above Derek's tattoo. Stiles yearned to touch. He could feel something warm and alive in the inch of air between their bodies, as if energy was leaking from Derek's skin. 

Derek hummed in his throat, his back rippling as he stretched. Likely a ploy, a summons, but it didn't matter. Stiles stepped forward and pressed his cheek against Derek's throat, trying to steal the rumble of that sound. His right hand grasped at Derek's shoulder—his fingertips digging into firm, supple muscle. His left hand thudded against the wall. 

Touching Derek was a revelation. As in, if someone had claimed they were bringing him to a god, and when Stiles touched that person he felt this? This ecstatic burst of relief as everything gnarled and sharp edged left his body? This sudden soul-deep awareness of the universe doubling in size? Stiles would believe. 

That the god—inexplicably—wanted to worship Stiles … that was just nifty. Though, to be fair, everything seemed pretty darn nifty. 

Because, even as he realized he was truly and inescapably bound to this man, and even as supernatural, heat-fueled lust pulsed through his body, another sensation blanketed his mind. And it made him feel nifty. As if he'd already come, and was sprawling in abandon—sated and euphoric. 

Turning his head, Stiles dragged his nose up the length of Derek's throat. Peppered the man's skin with chaste kisses on his way down—to the curve of Derek's neck. And there, where his scent was thick and tempting, Stiles pressed his lips. Flicked his tongue forward to taste. 

Then he was plastered against the man's back, chest to hips, his mouth licking and sucking at Derek's skin. Something alive and wild seized him, and his jaws widened. Fangs sprang free. 

No! 

Jerking backward in horror, he teetered dangerously, a tangle of awkwardly flung limbs. Derek spun and stepped forward. Trying to be helpful, Stiles knew, but the last thing he needed was the hypnotic span of Derek's chest coming at him. 

But, with a twist and a jerk, he was standing. Derek's absurdly edible body hovered a step away. Stiles hid the fangs he'd so brazenly snapped only minutes earlier, and forced a broken chuckle. 

“Sorry.” 

“Enough, Stiles.” 

The sound of Derek's voice slammed into him—reminded Stiles they should be touching. He fidgeted, opening his mouth … Derek moved. In a blink, he was too close, and then he was closer. His fingertips caressed the line of Stiles' throat, then slid to the nape of his neck and grasped.

Even as Stiles moaned, Derek was pulling him forward. Bracing himself, sure he would end up in Derek's arms, he was halted a step short—the wolf's hand pressed to his chest. As Stiles blinked up at him, caught and dazed, Derek's hand slid to his collar. Material tore. 

Stiles looked down and saw the claw of Derek's index finger buried in his shirt, leaving nothing but two jagged edges as it dragged, inexorably, downward. The panels fell open—Stiles' chest bared. The wolf smirked and trailed the front of that same claw up Stiles' belly, across his heart, and along his throat. Trembling, Stiles arched his neck to the side, hungry for Derek's mouth. 

“We're werewolves, baby. We bite.” 

Derek tugged him forward. Squeezing his eyes shut as a last, desperate line of defense, Stiles didn't see Derek's chest growing nearer. He felt it. The electric ecstasy of the man's scent and aura, his energy, everything about the wolf quickened Stiles' heartbeat. Until their chests collided. Then the steady strength of Derek's heartbeat slipped beneath his skin and set the pace. And, as his head reeled and his body sang, Derek slid an arm around his hips. Yanked him closer.

A snarling moan escaped. And everything got a lot easier. Because Derek rolled his hips, the hard line of his erection sliding against the length of Stiles' dick—and as pure bliss coursed beneath his skin, an epiphany hit. 

Derek had great ideas. The apple? Delicious. Masturbating in the shower? The only reason his boxers weren't a sticky mess. This straight-jacket hug and slow grind? Stiles felt like a jaguar sprawling in a patch of sunshine. Everything about the moment was, simply, better. 

He remembered Derek's earlier promise: “I'll give you what you wouldn't know to take.” 

Somehow, he found his lips hovering an inch from Derek's neck. He suspected Derek fingers, twined through his hair, had guided him there. Already, Stiles was imagining the taste of Derek's skin. Imagined, too, sinking his fangs into the taut curve of Derek's throat. 

Was this another great idea? 

What if Stiles just … stopped. Stopped trying to decide what he should and shouldn't do. What was and was not allowed. What if he just did? Specifically, what if—just for a minute—he did what Derek said? Nothing weird about it. He'd just promote Derek to Special Agent in Charge. It was the smart move. 

He brushed his lips against the pulse of Derek's neck. Moaned. 

“You want to bite me?” 

The words rumbled through Derek's chest and throat, luring Stiles like the purr of a cat. He found his free hand curled around Derek's neck, holding the man steady. When he lowered his mouth, it was to lick. Right where his fangs should be. 

“Bite me.” 

Teeth surging forward, Stiles panted. He wanted to, desperately. That's how he knew Derek wasn't telling him everything. This wasn't a whim or a desire. He needed this, but he didn't understand it. Derek did, though, and he'd issued Stiles an order. 

Widening his jaws, he paused long enough to appreciate the thrum of blissful anticipation, then sank his teeth in. Derek's head lolled back as he moaned. Stiles delighted in the deep, hungry sound even as an indecipherable surge of sensations and impulses grew and tangled in his belly. When he drew back, it was with a soft whimper. 

Derek tightened his grip and whispered, “I'm yours. Can you feel it now?” 

Everything. He felt everything. Protective and protected. Devoted and worshiped. Powerful and yielding. Achingly fond. 

“Can you feel it, Stiles?” 

Stretching against Derek's body, he whispered, “Yes.” 

“Believe it. I'm yours.” Derek turned his head and dragged his nose up the length of Stiles' throat. “And you're mine.” 

A sharp burst of pain as Derek's teeth sank into him. But Stiles didn't feel the teeth. He felt the strength of the jaws behind them. Felt captured and vulnerable. And he loved it. His body was purring with desire and a mischievous, smug pride. If Derek wasn't holding him up, he'd be on his knees, but Derek was holding him up. Would always. His mate was strong. 

Derek tore his mouth away. “I'm taking you to bed.” 

And had great ideas. 

Like brazenly grabbing Stiles' ass with both hands and lifting him into the air. Stiles whined, his eyes sliding shut. Between the teasing press of Derek's fingers and the friction assaulting his dick, he couldn't think past the desperate want. Yet, he managed to wrap his legs around Derek's hips. 

The coiled strength of Derek's body pulsing between his spread thighs felt wicked. Perfect. So intensely erotic it hurt. He was still marveling and cataloging when he started tipping backward. Startled, he gasped. They bounced against the mattress, the hard weight of Derek's body draped across him. 

“Oh.” Stiles giggled to himself. 

As he slowly stretched and writhed. His fingers sank into the supple muscle of Derek's back. Dragged, ever downward. Until, straining to reach, his fingertips slid beneath denim, and found heat. An instant later, his hands were pinned above his head, Derek looming over him. 

Before releasing his wrists, Derek deliberately squeezed. A clear message: stay. 

Then the man's mouth was at his jaw, kissing and nibbling to Stiles' chin. Hovering above Stiles' mouth and teasing his lips to sensitivity without even a touch. Movement. The flutter of Stiles' heart. And Derek licked … beneath his lips. 

Stiles could only arch against the bedspread, his fingers twining together. He ached for the press of Derek's body, but torturous inches separated them. So—helpless—he closed his eyes. Waited.  
The barest tease of Derek's mouth fluttered against his lips. Stiles arched into the touch, groaning. Then gasped, the back of his head slamming to the mattress. Derek's cheek pressed to Stiles' heart and dragged, unerringly, downward. Down his chest and across his trembling stomach. Over the material of his blue jeans. And nuzzled against Stiles' cock.

Even as his eyes popped open, the button of his pants did the same. Derek had the material eased past his hips and jerked off his legs before Stiles could articulate … things.

And then Derek's face was buried in his boxers. Pressed into and against and around Stiles' cock. Derek inhaled deeply. Growled. 

Stiles gaped, wide-eyed, until he laughed. He should be embarrassed. He was embarrassed. But, mostly, he was painfully aroused and desperately hopeful. And utterly, smittenly awed by the man before him. 

So, when Derek's fingers curled beneath the hem of his boxers, Stiles didn't protest so much as whine and roll his hips. Derek pressed a last kiss to Stiles' aching, boxer-clad erection, and moved to strip him. 

It wasn't a tease, or even a caress. Derek got the boxers off. Then, he pressed Stiles' thighs apart, slid forward, and stared. 

Which was horrible. Mortifying and jarring. 

“I missed you.” 

What? Stiles groaned. “Derek....” 

“I know.” The man dragged in a deep breath, some of his tension shaking free on the exhale. “But I, really, missed you.” 

Derek rolled his shoulders. Then, his lips quirked and he was rubbing his hands together. Which was great, because Derek's naked, moving chest was his new favorite show, but also slightly alarming. Because Derek looked geared up to eat something delicious, or lift something heavy. Which ... Stiles was already riding some continuous, full-body orgasm, his dick more than ready to join the party. The predatory zeal on Derek's face was not, at all, necessary. 

“You're shy again.” 

Said the wolf to the trembling bunny. 

“And you're quieter than ever.” Again, Derek rubbed his hands together, suspiciously gleeful. “Why don't I worship your ass until you babble and beg? Imagine it. Stretching around the slip and slide of my plunging fingers. Shaking beneath my tongue. You'll moan for me. Won't you?” 

Moan? He was an instant from coming untouched. His fingers were clenched in the comforter, his thighs quivering to remain still. Blinking up at Derek, he couldn't make himself speak. Didn't know what to say. 

“You can't hide from me. You're not.” Derek grinned and quirked his brows, his fingertips trailing up Stiles' thighs. “I won't let you.” 

He groaned. What was Derek even talking about? Maybe the euphoric cloud of the wolf's scent had struck him dumb. Maybe he wasn't equipped to solve this puzzle with half his blood supply rerouted to his dick. But, seriously, what was there left to hide? He was sprawled naked, desperate, and wet. Derek wanted more? 

“I'm doing whatever you say.” 

“And I'm desperate to lick the come off your stomach.” Derek's fingers slid up the crease of Stiles' thigh and across his pelvis, making him squirm while avoiding everything he wanted touched. “But you're in your head, clinging to control, and I'm still missing you.” 

Stiles growled, his eyes narrowing with impatience. 

Derek grinned and rubbed his hands together again. “I prefer the hard way.” 

Shaking himself, Stiles dragged his gaze away from Derek's chest—only to find the wolf staring into his eyes. The moment caught and held as Derek moved backward. Then, Stiles was alone, watching Derek's gaze flit downward. 

He didn't know what to do with himself. Felt one breath away from a spastic, arm-waving meltdown. Only, he couldn't stand if he wanted to, and he'd never felt such radiant bliss. But moments like this, when he wasn't struck dumb with waves of lust, everything felt really real. So intimate he wanted to hide. 

“You're so wet for me. God, baby, you have no idea....” 

Derek shuddered, and for just an instant, he looked as desperate and destroyed as Stiles felt. Then, a blink, and his hot mouth was pressed to Stiles' inner thigh. Laving his tongue against the crease of Stiles' leg. Gasping as everything in his body clenched, he battled back his orgasm with teeth and nails. Then sprawled against the bed, panting. 

“Derek...” 

The wolf drew back with a chuckle, then gripped both of Stiles' thighs and spread them, impossibly, wider. Urged the curve of Stiles' back and tilt of his hips. Until one of Derek's fingers slid between his cheeks and traced the rim of his hole. Slowly. 

It was different. His heart was still hammering and his balls were still aching, but it was different. Somehow, even more dangerous. When Derek had teased his cock, Stiles wanted relief. This made him want everything. Too much. 

His ass was suddenly alive with sensation and desperate to be touched. To be possessed. The same instinct had him caught between flinging himself into Derek's arms and rolling to his belly. In the end, he only trembled. 

“You know what your wolf wants, don't you?” 

His ass clenched. God, yes. He knew. 

Derek purred. “Mine, too.” 

The pads of two fingertips slid against him, slick and easy. Derek left his fingers there, against Stiles' pulsing body, and pressed. A burst of pleasure and want. His dick twitched even as he cooed. 

“You liked that.” Derek's strong fingers kneaded against him, making Stiles whimper. “And I love making you wet. When I smell you, needing me, the rest of the world disappears. All I want is more.” 

Stiles stretched, his body pulled taut with pulsing pleasure. Yet, he couldn't help but fidget, a little whine catching in his throat. 

“Shh.” Derek drew his hand back, but Stiles raised his hips, chasing the touch. Until a slap landed, light and playful—a gift—against his asshole. And even as Stiles gasped and arched, the wolf was saying, “Get on your belly.” 

Move? Really? 

Yet, his hips twisted and his chest rolled. It required no thought and no effort. Like crawling to his belly was instinct. Remaining motionless with his dick trapped between his belly and the bed—not instinct. But he breathed through it and slowly relaxed into the mattress. 

Mid-breath, he shuddered and went limp. Almost everywhere. His head slipped to the side, until the long line of his neck displayed Derek's bite. It felt heavenly. Layered beneath the lust was a sudden, unmistakable feeling of home. Of safety and belonging. All tangled around Derek. Who smelled like euphoria and had a body worthy of worship. Who had great ideas, and could be trusted. Who made Stiles feel cherished. Important. Excited affection surged as he thought of his mate—strong, and clever, and kind. And, as giddy joy rattled to his toes, the warped pulse of his thoughts steadied and slowed. 

“Oh.” He stretched and chuckled. “This is—” He made an awed scoffing noise and ended it with a huff of laughter. “Yeah.” 

“You smell like you remember me.”

Stiles chuckled again and shook his head. “I smell like I adore you.”

“Yes.” Derek stretched up the length of Stiles' body and pressed a kiss to his nape. “You do.” 

He saw the pillow vanish in a flurry. Derek was already gripping his hips, urging his ass into the air, when Stiles connected the dots. 

“Poor pillow.” 

Derek laughed. “Baby, they'll need a new bed. Fuck the pillow.” 

Slipping it beneath Stiles' hips, Derek added, “Not literally. Focus entirely on my fingers in your ass. I'll tell you when to come.” 

“Oh my god.” The lust in his belly stirred and pulsed. “Do I have to call you 'master?' Do you usually wear leather pants and carry a paddle?” 

A second later, his burning face was buried in the comforter. Those were not outside thoughts! 

“You've never called me master.” Like no time at all had passed, Derek pressed his fingers to Stiles' slick opening. “You call me mate. 'Alpha' when you want extra attention.” 

Derek's fingertips started a slow slip and slide. Even as Stiles flushed with embarrassed pleasure, he laughed. 

“I think my wolf's—” Derek startled a gasp out of him, “gloating. I feel, ah, devious and smug. Among, yeah, other things.” 

Growling softly, Derek ran a hand down Stiles' spine. One slick fingertip pressed against his ass, then within. “I will always take care of you.”

Stiles melted under the words. He didn't understand them—and suspected, surprise, surprise, he didn't know everything—but maybe Derek wasn't talking to him. Maybe he was talking to Stiles' gleeful wolf. Because, beyond the steady pulse of his desire, Stiles felt a luxurious tranquility urging him to go limp. To relent. 

The alpha growled again, his free hand clutching at Stiles' hip. Even as the sound ricocheted through Stiles' body, Derek said, “Enough torture.” 

Stiles startled, eyes wide and body taut, as Derek's finger plunged deep. A slow drag and quick thrust. The pulsing stretch and slick friction stole his breath. Derek added a second finger. 

“Oh ... wait, wait, wait, wait.” The word faded into a flurry of w's as he scrambled for purchase in the sheets. 

The wolf stopped, his fingers buried in Stiles' ass. “Did you mean to say 'wait?'” 

Even as Stiles reeled, the world pulsing around him, Derek's fingers spread. Then fell still, leaving him with nothing but pulsing desire and a desperate ache inches from Derek's touch. It wasn't five seconds before he tossed his head and said, “No.” 

Derek hummed. “What did you mean to say?” 

With a little whimper, Stiles rolled his hips against Derek's fingers. The wolf chuckled and tightened his grip on Stiles' hip. 

“Speak. No hiding.” 

He fidgeted, grinning like an idiot even as he slowly shook his head. Finally, he whispered, “You know.” 

Derek spread his fingers a little wider. “You're right. I do. So why can't you say the words?” 

Anxious tension bubbled in his chest, but Stiles snarled it away as his back flexed and rolled. 

“Oh my god! Mercy, dude. You suck so hard.”

“You weren't brave enough to ask.” 

The words shook him into stillness, his mind spinning. Really? If he'd just asked.... Derek's fingers curled closer to what must be his prostate. His hypersensitive, aching prostate. If he just asked....

“More. Okay? Please.” Stiles tossed his head again. “You win. You're dirty-talk champion of the world, really, and ... yes. But I'm not going to say sexy things. I'm spazzing out. Now, please, just … I need you.” 

“Hmm. I like you honest. You are sexy, Stiles. The real, spastic you. I want to hear you, not titillating words.” Derek laughed, his hand leaving Stiles' hip to caress the length of his spine. “You love it. Every word out of my mouth makes you smell better.”

Derek dragged his fingers out. Then, as Stiles gasped silent little breaths, pressed them forward—a torturous centimeter at a time. “This makes you smell better. That's all I want, Stiles. Your pleasure. So, speak up. If you want something, don't be shy. Ask for it. I'll do anything to make you feel good.” 

The words hit him in the gut, and his ass clenched around Derek's thick fingers. A moan staggered out of him, only growing in sound as those fingers curled.

“There! Derek....” Right where he ached to be touched, and Derek was already there, giving him what he needed. “I, I trust you. I don't have to ask.” 

Derek growled, but the pressure behind his fingertips was gentle. More than enough, though, to make Stiles' thighs tremble and his belly clench and coil. A soft whine escaped his lips. 

“You're right there, aren't you? So close. Do you want it?” 

Stiles sobbed. “Oh my god, yes, please. I will seriously give you a dollar. Not that you, ah,” his fingers convulsed around fabric, a moan ripped from his throat, “...accept, um, monetary compen—” 

“Keep the dollar. You only had to ask.”

Stiles chuckled into the mattress, irritated and fond, and so, so turned on. An instant later, his back was arching. Intense pleasure faded to pulsing radiance as Derek, slowly, withdrew his fingers. The stretch and slide was perfect, but he twitched when Derek left him empty. His body clenched—a demand. But Derek only unabashedly bathed his fingers in the wetness gathering in Stiles' crack, and plunged them deep. 

Breathless with pleasure, his hands skidded across the comforter.

“Stretch your arms above your head. There's spokes in the headboard.” 

And, as his clutching fingers curled around the spokes, it was so perfect his heart warmed with bursting affection. Relaxing into the feeling for a single instant, his balls were clenching before he could gasp. 

No! Derek's fingers were curling, searching. Stiles grit his teeth, shaking with determination. Just a second longer. Two....

Derek pulled away. Drew away. Slid his slick fingers out of Stiles' ass, and away from the center of Stiles' universe.

“You are, oh my god! You are killing me!” 

“But you smell delicious.” 

Stiles rattled the headboard. “Derek!” 

The wolf laughed. “Come on, then.”

His fingers surged, slick and forceful. Stiles curled against the bed, his grip white-knuckle tight around the creaking wooden spokes. Derek's thick knuckles stretched the ring of his ass, and the tips of those long fingers conjured stars. Stiles trembled in silence as he coiled tight and taut, sparks of energy sizzling across his skin. 

Derek kneaded his fingers. And, as Stiles' hips snapped forward, found that pulsing ball of want and pressed tight. 

“Now.” 

Derek's dark growl chased a soft mewl from Stiles' lips, but his body was already there. Exploding. Sparking and all consuming, it surged like a shock wave. Jolted his body into a keening wail as his dick jerked and spurted. The world pulsed with his frantic heartbeat. 

A blissful, sated moan still vibrated his lips when Stiles found himself on his back. The first lap of Derek's tongue against his belly startled a quiver out of him, his dick twitching. Boneless and thoughtless, he reveled in the peace as Derek bathed him. Ate his come. When that tongue dragged against the crown of his hypersensitive dick, Stiles whined a halfhearted warning. 

The wolf growled, like a dog with a bone. Stiles chuckled until he laughed. Then couldn't stop.

He stopped when Derek's hot mouth engulfed him, swallowed him down, then left again with an audible pop. An instant later, still reeling, Stiles was on his belly, listening to Derek shed his pants. Then, the wolf was crawling up the bed. He kneed Stiles' obliging legs apart and slotted between his thighs and against his back. Sprawled across Stiles' body, his weight a blanket of warmth and safety. 

“Oh, wow.” He stretched, shuddering with satisfaction. “I like this.” 

“I know you do. I liked tasting your come.” Derek nuzzled against the nape of his neck. “Go to sleep, Stiles.” 

He stretched and hummed, so mindlessly calm he expected instant oblivion. But it didn't come. Excited, happy energy had his knee bouncing. The insistent press of Derek's hard dick had, impossibly, roused his ass to lazy pleasure. 

“You know, you had a free hand.” He twitched his hips, in case Derek didn't follow. 

“Smelling my come would drive you nuts.” He snuggled closer, seemingly at peace despite the evidence of his desire. “I've fallen asleep hard for you all week. Holding you, now, I'm satisfied.”

Stiles tried to believe him, but come on! Derek must have some CIA, monk-meditating-in-the-snow training. Because Stiles had basically left his body five minutes ago, in what was—not surprisingly—the best orgasm in his memory, and the heavy weight of Derek's erection was still turning him on. “It's a little distracting.” 

“Stiles.” Derek laughed, but it sounded like a groan. “You have to sleep. Please.” 

Stiles nodded and closed his eyes. Wow. So … wow. He was naked, and still wet, and his ass was very much a present part of his life in a way that was new. And Derek. Just thinking about the wolf roused a giddy bubble of affection and adoration in Stiles' chest. Wow. He really liked Derek. It felt like a mixture of hand-flailing fanboy glee, and that giddy ache roused by videos of kittens, and puppies, and other baby animals begging to be clung to and cherished. Yeah.... 

It was almost too awesome. He got Derek, he got to feel like this, and he got to be a werewolf? Should he be looking for a Djinn? Because, hell yeah. This was a dream. He'd take this. 

“You're not sleeping. You're vibrating.” 

The amusement in Derek's voice made it easier to stand the separation of their skin. Shifting some of his weight to the bed, Derek curled half atop him and half against his side. Stiles narrowed his eyes, not sure he approved.

“What do you want, Stiles?” Derek's fingers slid against his neck lazily. “We'll be here over a week. What should we do?”

“Oh. Well, more of that.” Stiles blushed but added, “You. I like you.” 

He felt the scrap of Derek's nails against his neck. “I'm very fond of you. What else?” 

“I should probably get my memories back.” 

“The pack's on it. What else?” 

“Okay.” He bounced with excitement. “I want, like, you were in the CIA, right? And you were born a werewolf. You must know stuff. Could you help me?” 

“Yes. How?” 

“I'm thinking training montage. You know, make me the best werewolf I can be. Teach me to run, and hunt, and build forts in the woods. Target practice, too. And could you teach me to fight? Like a werewolf, but also like a ninja. And, I need knives. I'm not a ranged character anymore, you know?”

Derek's arms tightened around him. “Yes. Absolutely. That's a great idea. Perfect.” 

Stiles stretched, grinning like an idiot. “Thanks.”


End file.
